


Crocodile Tears

by cannibalisticshadows



Series: Scute To Me [2]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Angst, Anthropomorphic Crocodile Rumplestiltskin, Anthropomorphism - Freeform, Blood and Gore, Eventual Romance, Explicit Language, F/M, Furries and Scalies would approve, Human/Monster Romance, Hurt/Comfort, Interspecies Relationship(s), Minor Character Death, Non-Consensual Groping, Revenge, Sharing Body Heat, Slow Burn, Trust Issues, Writing, same warnings from scrumptious, there's some anorexic behavior
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-14
Updated: 2018-05-22
Packaged: 2019-01-16 18:07:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 33,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12347853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cannibalisticshadows/pseuds/cannibalisticshadows
Summary: Belle spends her nights in the library. She is not alone.





	1. Monster In The Library

There was a monster in the library.

She didn’t know how or why or when, but somehow, some way, in whatever form, there was a monster in there. She was without a doubt.

She just knew it; a certainty that gripped her heart in a death hold, squeezing every rational sense in her body to smithereens like a broken raw egg, sticky yellow goo dribbling down a fist that was most definitely carrying salmonella. There was no mistaking it. Something was in the library. She knew it.

If every desired materialistic thing was offered to her on a silver platter, she would choose nothing if it meant she had to stop her path to winning a Pulitzer Prize. Writing was a part of her as breathing was. It didn’t matter how she got to her goal as long as she got there in the end. It was why she spent long hours after closing time, at the library, reading and writing her way to getting that Prize; to getting the proof that she wasn’t another wasted pretty face that was nothing more than a reclusive bookworm with too many silly ideas. To prove to her simple-minded townspeople that she could do this. It was why the librarian, an elderly man who was beyond the age to retire, let her have free reign of the library’s uses even after midnight. Maybe the old man hoped she would take over when he did retire; she had no qualm about it. 

But things change when things get in the way. Like a monster in the library.

She began to notice things were queer a month ago. It was when she first began to use the library afterhours, working on a series of short stories for a writing publication company who had been interested in her work before. She was fond of writing fantasy, especially the cheesy romances spiced with fairytale themes. On this particular collection of stories, she had created a character she based of off Rumpelstiltskin the fairytale villain. Her version of this character was beginning as a lowly spinner in a village struggling against all odds. The short stories were the sad, miserable chronicles of his transition from meek peasant to heartless sorcerer. With every possibility at her fingertips and not an ounce of mercy, she wove a colorful series of events with her beloved character “Rumple” being thrown into absolute Hell. A cruel writer, she was, but it was all her own and she loved it. 

It was when she was tapping furiously at her typewriter one day, flushed from inner excitement and the impatient need to get the story out on paper, when she heard it.

Her Rumple was in the middle of making the decision to crush his own ankle so he could return home and avoid the war in order be a father, when suddenly, out of the corner of the young author’s eye, she heard something weird along with a what sounded like a book falling from the shelf across her. It was a low grunting sound, followed by loud shuffling.

The only light was the lamp at her table, and the shadows of the surrounding bookshelves casted shade around her in long, eerie shapes. She herself sat in darkness, with the gleam of the light reflecting off of her glasses—brown mottled reading glasses with a beaded chain—throwing a miniature spot light on the table. With her fingers poised over the keys of her typewriter, she squinted into the shapeless black around her, straining her eyes as if it would help to find the source of disturbance.

Of course, she saw nothing, and snorted at herself. “Silly, silly me,” she mumbled, knowing she was alone, but liked the sound of her speaking into the over all silence of the library. 

This happened again, in a similar fashion, the next night, and the night after that, and the night after that—

She noticed it happened well into the night, a quarter past one in the morning. With this strange, spooky occurrence repeating itself for nearly a while work week, she decided that it was high time to investigate. Maybe it was a mouse, she mused. But it couldn’t be a mouse. Mice don’t make such noise, consistently, in that fashion. It had to be something bigger. A raccoon, then? Maybe.

When Friday rolled around, and she was setting up her typewriter for another long night of writing, she made a plan of action. As one o’clock would come around, she would turn on another lamp—a floor one she ~~stole~~ borrowed from the library’s break room,to see for herself what on Earth was making such noise! 

So one o’clock came around, and when it neared the time her mysterious notice would start, she flicked the lamp. The room became much more brighter, enough to see clearly.

To her disappointment, nothing happened, even as time passed. No weird noises. No weird thumps in the night.

She left the lamp on the next night, and when nothing happened again, she decided she was being silly, and turned it off.

And the sounds come back again once the lamp is off.

Disturbed, she decided to leave the lamp on for good. The light stopped the weird noises, therefor stopping the distractions. She could get back to her writing with her full attention. And for awhile, things were find for several nights. She was able to complete her current short story on Rumple, and swiftly began the next one. But of course when the employees of the library finally wanted their lamp back, she was forced to return to the unsettling darkness with only her small, yellow-lighted table lamp to keep her workspace lit. 

The sounds did not return the first night of her return to darkness; she was confident the lights scared away whatever this thing was for good. It was just two more nights of this when everything changed.

She had wasted about ten pages of paper and ink; her story was just not coming together, and she was hunched over the typewriter with sore fingers and irritated nerves. Her eyes stung from the strain, exhaustion clouding her mind from too little sleep. But nothing she wrote fit. It didn’t sound right. She was driving herself mad over it. Steadily, with each typo or confusing sentence, the story was becoming the bane of her existence. In a impulsive wrathful burst when she couldn’t handle anymore cursing her writer’s block to the heavens, she ripped the pages of useless words out of the roller and flung them to the ground. They rustled loudly, shakily flying about as they fluttered to the ground. A few sheets slid far off, disappearing into the blackness around her desk area. 

Sighing, she stood up and mumbled nonsense to herself as she began to collect the scattered paper. The ground was cool under her knees and hands, crawling on three limbs as she plucked up each paper one at a time. Her glasses dangled from her neck, swinging back and forth, tapping the buttons on her yellow blouse and making a cute little sound. Grunting as she reached the bookshelves, she started to grope blindly, searching for the two lost pages.

Something touched her.

Gasping, she dropped her papers and flung herself away, eyes wide as she panicked and searched for something she could not see. Heart pounding in her chest, tense and ready to fight or take flight, she suddenly found something with her wavering hand as she was backing away toward the light of her desk. It was round, a little spiky, and felt cool and leathery to the touch. Then it bloody fucking _moved_ , and something _growled_.

It sounded like a car engine, put-puttering to come to life. Low and guttural, dark and chilling, something that sounded inhuman and wrong and oh so terrifying. She wanted to scream, to cry, to run until she was home and safe under her flower-printed blankets with her tortoiseshell cat Rose. The dull spines on this long, snake like appendage under her hand moved until it vanished, somewhere in the dark, and something big and heavy stirred close to her, moving amongst the murky blackness. She could _feel_ it, could _see_ faint shadows shifting in the black, silhouetted by the faint yellow light. Like strange shadows that played with one's mind right at the brink of sleep.

Too shocked to move, too horrified to thing beyond _whattheabsolutebloodyfuckisthis_ , she strained her senses to blindly scrutinize as the thing growled again, almost reptilian, and slink away until she could sense it no more.

She could not breath. She could not move. She just sat, pressed against a shelf and not giving a damn that the spines of the books were digging into her back, or that her black flare skirt was bunched about her thighs uncomfortable. The only thing she could do was take quick, sharp breaths as she quaked and panicked and had a little part of her sanity die. 

And that was the night. The night Belle realized there was a monster in the library.


	2. Chicken

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Belle decides to return to the library.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Looks at massive support for a continuation. Does the write-thing*
> 
> Enjoy, my fellow rumbelle lovers.

Some people say that everything can be explained by science. She, however, did not agree, and therefor, it was absolutely positively reasonable to believe that monsters and aliens could be out there, denied by the masses because it was down right preposterous that something could be greater than mankind. But wasn’t it equally terrifying that humans could be alone in this universe, as it was that something beyond mortal understanding was out there? She believed that there were things people could not explain: a mystery as old as time, spoken of in fairytales and religion and history.

This was one reason why she did not do much after the incident in the library. Logical reasoning said that monsters, like whatever she touched that night, did not, and could not, exist amongst humans so long without being noticed. But then again, new species were discovered all the time. Then again, those species were usually small and not too terribly important. Not big and lumbering and growling like the monster in the library. So it was why once she was sure the monster had left, she got up and bolted. Ran home. Didn’t care if her things were there. Of course, she went back to the library at sunrise to get her stuff…

The other reason why she chose to stay silent about that night was the reaction of others. As frightened as she had been, even she could understand that no one would believe her. If they actually listened to her, the best outcome would be her getting thrown in a mental hospital. Sheriff Humbert, as kind as he was, would not humor her silly woman fantasies—because incredulity would be every person’s exact thought if she decided to tell someone. 

She could hear them all now:

 _A monster in the library? Belle, dear, maybe you need to get more sleep._

_Oh, sure there’s a monster in the library! It eats pretty and helpless women whose name is Belle._

_If I say I believe you, will you let me take you to dinner?_

So she chose silence. Well, she told Rose, but Rose was a cat who couldn’t voice judgment of her bookish mistress. 

When the weekend pasted and Monday was coming to its end, she did not go to the library. Instead, she locked herself at home and actually got a night’s rest. She decided to, maybe, return to the library Tuesday night.

This monster had some form of intelligence, she pondered during her stay at home Monday night; that much was clear. The monster did not return the first night the floor lamp was taken away; it waited until it was sure the lamp would not return. It stayed in the dark, for whatever reason, and did… what? Watch her? Wait for the right moment to attack? She shivered. Just how long had that thing been in the library? What were its intentions? Where did it go during public hours? Where was it when the lights were on?

A violent tremor ran through her. It chilled her to think that this monster lurked in the dark of the library as she sang and talked nonsense to herself, sitting unaware of the monster that was likely mere feet away. How smart was this monster, she wondered? Smart enough to know that it shouldn’t come out right away once the floor lamp was removed. Smart enough to lay in hiding, and smart enough to not attack in fear of being caught. Never before had she heard of a monster in Storybrooke, where literally the most exiting thing that ever happened was the day Emma Swan, a drifter from Boston, turned out to be the mayor’s son’s biological mother. Nothing happened in Storybrooke.

And yet there was a monster in the library.

She did not know if it would be sensible to return after that night. A normal person would just stay home and forget about it. But she was not a normal person; and the library was where she got her best book ideas, and was able to write the most material. Every night spent there was one night closer to getting to her goal. And now a monster stood in her way. 

Was getting mauled worth a Pulitzer Prize?

She struggled with the fear of encountering the monster again, and hesitated before she packed her typewriter up Monday night. Setting her handbag on her kitchen counter to stuff a few granola bars in for midnight munchies, she pondered on this internal struggle. 

Was she prejudice of the monster? Perhaps it wasn’t even bad at all. Maybe the monster was shy. After all, so many nights had gone by with nothing but it being a little noisy. Maybe the monster was trying to find a good book to read. _Yeah, fat chance_.

Or, she countered her kinder thoughts, the monster was smarter than she thought, and was lying in wait, studying her every move so it could strike at the perfect time? Drag her to God knows where and do something a hungry predator would do? Plus, would the monster even return after what happened last time?

Scared, but also invigorated enough to not be deterred from her goals, she made a last minute decision to bring the raw chicken she had thawed to cook tomorrow. She was damn-near positive that this thing had growled at her; predators growl like that. Predators eat me. Maybe it will appreciate it if she brought it something to eat. So she gave a goodbye kiss to Rose and gathered her things, eyeing the tiny tortoiseshell as it curled around her ankles. “Be good, shmooky-poo. Mama’ll be back in the morning. Hopefully.”

Nervous as could be, she then made her way to the library. No one acted out of order; everyone seemed fine. There were no newspaper headlines raving about the monster in the library.

She waved to her friends as she passed, hoping she did not look as anxious as she felt. Everything so far was fine, and she shuffled into the library just as the building was about to close. The head librarian waved to her as she locked up. Locked her up inside.

She set up her work space like usual and watched the sun set from the windows. The clock read seven o’clock. Five hours until midnight. Sighing, she put paper into the roller and made sure the ink cartage was full before continuing. Ah, yes. The trouble with Rumple…

It was after a few more wasted pages when she finally settled on making Rumple’s wife, a woman who did not love him or their small son, to fly the coop with a pirate who was much younger. Poor Rumple, she mused, typing the scene of events. She felt sad, a little, making this miserable fictional man even more miserable. But it made a fabulous story. 

The monster’s sounds were heard again. 

She froze, fingers hovering over the keys. Her blood ran cold; a slight sheen of sweet formed at her nape and sides of her face. Her heart sped up, fully prepared to make her run like hell. Or fight like hell.

Slowly, cautiously, she lifted her head up toward the darkness in front of her, just a few feet in front of her desk. Murky shapes shifted, morphed, and the heavy dragging of something as large as a man was very hearable. 

The monster had returned.

Gulping, she put one hand over her heart to calm herself. Being brave was the key, here. This thing could have already hurt her, and had several chances to do so. However, she was not so foolish as to jump into the shadows with it or run across the room and turn the head lights on. and put the other gently down over her hand bag. She reached inside, grabbed the raw chicken, and with painfully slow movement, put it on the desk.

“I know you’re there,” she whispered lowly, voice hardly audible. It was unknown if the monster could understand her, much less understand she was approaching it in peace. She did not want to get eaten tonight, or any other night. But by Gods, this thing better behave itself until she published this damn story of hers. Feeling a little braver once the thing in the darkness remained stagnant, she used her shaky hands to rip open the chicken from its plastic wrapping. The scent of its raw meat filled the air—an unpleasant smell to her. She took hold of the bird carcass, lifted it to the light: beige-pink and limp, heavy in her hand. A shuffling sound followed this. Slightly encourage, she motioned toward the darkness with the poultry. It flopped about in the air. “Are you hungry?” she whispered, her voice scratchy. 

Another low, car-like growl was emitted. She recognized the sound immediately, but this version of the monster’s growl was lighter, more similar to a chirp than a warning. Did this mean it understood her? Would it come out? 

What if it was very scary looking?

On trembling legs, she tentatively stood up, cringing as her chair scraped the ground. More shuffling and scrapping was heard from the shadows, but nothing emerged. The shapes of the shadows, however, became bigger, making her think that it was closer than before.

Then, hoping this wasn’t the most stupid idea she ever did have in the history of stupid ideas, she tossed the chicken toward the dark.

She saw and heard it hit the ground; a plop of the raw bird carcass as it slapped against the hard floors of the library. It landed just at the edge of the seemingly endless darkness, still and splayed out like a big-breasted girl on display. Staring unblinkingly, she strained her senses as she waited for the monster to make a move.

After what felt like an eternity, it did move. It made a reptilian-like grunting noise, a rumbling purr and a sniff. She watched a bulky figure bend, and move closer, and closer—

She saw the silhouette before anything. It was spiky, disfigured; inhuman. A long open maw was visible for a split second, as it opened to expose its terrifying mouth filled with sharp fangs. Its green-gray mottled snout nudged the bird, sniffed it, went still for a few seconds and—

It snapped shut. Startled violently by the lightning-fast move of the monster’s green mottled maw snap up the offering like a crocodile laying in wait, attacking some poor unaware animal with a swift, brutal lunge. 

The thing backed away before she could see the rest of it, vanishing in the blackness as if it had never been there to begin with. She heard the monster shuffling about in the back of the library, farther away than ever before, and made loud, blood-curdling chomping sounds as it ate the bird greedily. Too shocked to process what she just did, she slunk back to her desk and plopped back down in her chair, hands clutching her armrests in a vise-like grip. Her knuckles were white. Her heartbeat was still wild.

Of course, the monster did not take more than a minute to eat the bird, and went deathly silent once she was sure it had finished eating. She could not tear her eyes away from the area where the monster crawled off to, and watched with light terror as the shuffling-dragging sounds began again, and suddenly became closer. It stopped just as its outline was barely visible.

“You’re welcome…” she said quietly, wide-eyed as she stared unblinkingly at the thing. It was closer than it was before, not like it had been when it took the bird, but enough so and long enough for her to get a better look. It was tall, reptilian-like, and stood on two legs hunched over; she had seen its very long maw, filled with big fangs.

A big, humanoid crocodile.

The monster emitted another weird sound at her; an airy mix between a snarl and a snort. It stayed as still as a statue, yet clearing watching her. She forced herself to breath, to swallow air as her mouth was dry as a bone, and waved her hand, feeling its eyes pinned on her.

The monster waved a taloned hand back.

The thing had intelligence. It had intelligence. There was absolutely no doubt. Letting out a laugh born from nerves and disbelief, shaking with bewilderment as these ridiculous turn of events.

“You’re there…” she said, unable to make much sense of this monster. Creature. Something. “Will you hurt me?”

The monster sniffed, and shuffled a little closer. Now she could see a pair of incredibly strange eyes, golden bronze and white-less. 

“ _No._ ”

She jerked backwards, almost falling from her chair. She had not expected that. The creature’s voice was a scratchy, rumbling growl-like sound that was a more high pitched than she expected. “You can talk?”

It grunted.

She wanted to cry. She wanted to crawl into a hole and never come out. She wanted to wake up from this really messed up dream. “What are you?”

She saw the monster shrug.

“W—“ she opened and closed her mouth. Pushing back her sweat-dampened hair, she watched the figure in the shadow step an inch closer. She could see its toothy grin, its leathery lips curled up to show off its sharp teeth. Small tusk-like fangs on its bottom jaw dug into its upper jaw. _Definitely a crocodile._ “Step into the light,” she demanded, feeling braver. 

The thing sniffed again. It shuffled. Then it stepped closer—

Someone banged on the front doors of the library. Violently startled out of this tender, tentative moment, the creature suddenly jumped and hiccupped, snarling its maw-full of ghastly fangs and flashing its golden reptilian eyes before backing away, dropping on all fours, and anxiously scrambled away. She heard several sets of shelves being rammed into clumsily, and books being knocked off and hitting the ground in loud bangs and paper rustling. She heard its scrape of claws against floor very far away, stop. Silent. As if it had never been there. 

She heard their disturber bang on the front doors again, loud and sloppy. _Hello, reality._ This person meant to enter, and must have had a good reason. No body bothered her at the library afterhours. Panicking, she shoved the chicken’s plastic wrap into her handbag, uncaring if the raw bird goo dirtied it. How dare someone come in unannounced as she worked. And mess up the meeting of the bloody century. How dare they.

She stood on shaking legs, dashing to the door while trying not to trip. Once she got to the doors, illuminated by the streetlights outside, she saw Emma Swan, one of Sheriff Humbert’s deputies, stand out there, waiting. Trying not to feel as if she had been caught assisting the most wanted criminal in all of Maine, she unlocked the doors and stepped outside. No one was out at this time, but Emma stood there with her arms crossed, looking tired and in need of a good nap. Belle guessed she looked like that too.

“Hey, Belle, sorry to bother you,” the blonde woman said, placing her hands on her hips. “Just making rounds, needed to see you.”

“It’s fine.” Belle forced the words out. She didn’t want to talk to anyone right now. Not even the creature she had been speaking to before. She wanted to go home and sleep, wake up from this semi-nightmare. Finish her damn story. “How can I help?”

“Have you seen anything weird, lately? We’ve gotten a couple of calls for noise complaints in the area. Everything good?”

“Yeah, yeah, definitely. Nothing’s wrong. No worries here!” She let out a nervous laugh. Yeah. Definitely not talking to the monster in the library. “Just me and the books.”

Emma’s green eyes narrowed at her, securitizing the petite russet-haired woman before her as if seeing something curiously amiss. Trying not to sweat too much, screaming in her head for the blond to just go home and leave her alone, because, most certainly, Belle was doing nothing wrong. Nothing was wrong. 

But everything was. “Alright…” Emma concluded, her shoulders slumping. The blonde sighed and shook her head, brushing back long locks of flaxen hair. “Night, then. Sorry to bother.”

“Night…” Belle watched the other woman leave into the night. Shaky, terrified, and confused as hell, she shut the doors and locked them. 

She slumped against the doors. Disbelief and terror filled her gut, strangling the life and sanity out of her. She had just encountered an actual monster. A monster that could talk and walk and eat. Something strange and weird and…almost human.

Letting out a broken sigh, she made her way back to her desk, feeling as if she was walking on a cloud. She sat down, stared at the keys. Suddenly, her inspiration for Rumple was crushed and broken and lost, beyond her reach. How was a fairytale character more fascinating than a crocodile that could stand like a man?

“Are you still there?” she whispered, voice straining above her nerve-tighten throat. The space around remained silent, no shuffling or growling. She sniffed, glancing back to her handbag. A little disgusted, she pulled the chicken plastic out and got up to wrap it in tissue and toss it in the rubbish bin—which was by the front desk. In the dark.

Sniffling, and much braver than before, she said aloud, “If I come in there, will you eat me?”

To her surprise, the scaly monster growled out, “ _Maaaaaybe._ ”

She stood still, a little concern. Was the monster serious? Or was it smart enough to know how to joke? Not knowing until she tried it, but not dumb enough to venture out into the darkness without her phone (she puts the sheriff’s number on speed dial), she then tiptoes into the black. She could make out the outline of the front desk, and groped toward it, putting a hand on the cool marble counter to stabilize herself. Once she found the tissues, she used them to wrap the chicken plastic in, and tossed it in the bin.

As she was whipping her hands, she heard it.

And it touched her.

Tensing up, she stood statue-still, sweating a little in fear as what felt an awful lot like a snout nudge her back. And sniff her hair. “I could eat you.” She gulped. Maybe this was indeed a bad idea. “Tasty girl...” it groused, as it _licked her cheek_. Repulsed, frightened, and downright insulted, she slithered away from the monster and scampered to the light of her desk. It did not follow her. Once safe, she turned toward its direction, and saw its hunched over figure. A long, thick spiked tail dragged behind it. It growled. 

“You won’t eat me.”

“Oooh?” it replied, shuffling closer. She could see the reflected of the light off its eyes, now, and two arms hanging by its side.

“If you eat me, I wouldn’t bring you more food.”

It tilted its head. Its lips curled upward and spat, “Yet you would be more filling.”

“But you haven’t attacked me, yet. What are you going here every night?”

“Waiting. You take too long.”

“Too long—too long for what? You’re just sulking down her spying on me?”

It hissed. “This is my home, dearie. You’re the trespasser.”

“This building is government own—wait, your _home?_ ”

The monster did not reply, and stepped closer. Now, she could see its scales and crocodilian features, but yet so manlike, too, it was… eerie. But the monster was no _ugly_.

She forced herself to sit down or fall down. From her chair, she watched the creature move a little closer, watching her with a mixed expression of wonder and hate. “You should be done, by now.”

“Done—with my story?” she motioned toward her typewriter, where the world of Rumple awaited to be completed, but did not dare to take her eyes off the crocodile just feet away.

It grunted, and suddenly lifted a clawed hand up toward her—

In the monster’s palm, was a crumbled up paper.

Her paper.

“Oh,” she said, unsure of what to say. The crocodile tossed her the paper, and she caught it in her shaking hands. 

“You need to leave,” it growled, turning on a clawed, webbed foot to walked away into the dark, leaving Belle lost and confused.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> R&R. I accept constructive criticism!


	3. New Interests

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Belle comes up with a plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was suppose to update Pushing Up The Roses, but this happened.
> 
> Facts about this AU:
> 
> >Storybrooke in this universe is bigger than it is in cannon. 
> 
> >Storybrooke has an aquarium.
> 
> >Gaston, Keith, Emma, David, and Graham are the police force.
> 
> >The year is 2012-ish, modern era, but Belle uses a typewriter to write because: reasons.
> 
> >Every fact I list in this fanfic regarding real-life crocodiles or alligators are scientifically correct. I do not make them up.

She was the greatest fool to have ever walked the planet.

But, also the most daring one.

Because she was planning to come back tomorrow night.

The monster did not approach her again, after the incident with the paper. Feeling safe, she managed to type out four more pages before sunrise came around. Since discovering her scaly monster’s existence, inspiration for her story became as prolific as a desert. Suddenly Rumpelstiltskin was as exiting as rocks. Boring rocks. Really, what was more exciting than an anthropomorphic semi-aquatic reptile? 

So she packed up that morning at a loss for what to do or think, doing everything on autopilot as her mind swirled with possibilities and theories. How did a beast like that thing live in a library, if what it claimed was true? What did it do to eat? Where did it sleep? Where did it come from? Were there others like it?

Sighing, she shook her head and made her way out the library, but paused at the doorway before leaving. She turned back, seeing the room much clearer now that faint light from dawn was flooding the space. She did not see her scaly acquaintance, though that did not deter her from calling out, saying, “I’m coming back tonight. With more food.”

There was no answer. After a moment of awkward waiting, she huffed and turned to march out of the library.

She was a fool to even push relations with this creature. She was a fool to even think she’d get that damn Prize without getting a good mauling. Plus, she had no idea if the monster would even react kindly to her, with or without offerings of raw chicken. It was just as dangerous as playing with a real crocodile—with a similar outcome like that time she was six, still living in Australia with her parents, when the entire French family decided to go to the beach one Christmas. A trip that ended up with Belle being dog-less and traumatized for life.

She didn’t stop dragging herself until she was home, after dropping her typewriter on the floor and collapsing on the couch. Rose, with her tail up and a baring a thoughtful expression, padded up to her with a soft mew of hello. Smiling, Belle reached out and petted her head, amused when the tiny feline dogged her hand to smell her over. The cat caught the smell of chicken, though, and licked her fingers with a _purp_ and ears laid back. When Rose became disinterested with her, she turned around and padded off to her cat tree. Belle sighed, rolled onto her back. She could not get the crocodile out of her head.

 _Maybe a little TV_ , she decided, and reached toward the stand by the couch where she kept her remotes. Grabbing the desired one, she clicked the power button pointing it toward the screen across the small living room. 

The television sparked to life, and the sound of a familiar Australian accent (besides her own) filled her apartment.

Belle cringed as she recognized Steve Irwin’s voice, and sat up with a glare as she watched the famous zookeeper talk passionately about the wildlife in their shared birthplace. On the screen, beyond where the man was gesturing toward, was a large crocodile laying on a sandbank, basking in the daylight like the large deadly beast it was. Belle had never cared to watch _The Crocodile Hunter_ , ever since that incident on Christmas—(plus a few Australian stereotypes came from Steve Irwin). She knew they were dangerous, but honestly did not care to know anything else. Before she ever even met this anthro-croc in the library, Belle had a deep dislike toward the reptiles. A damn saltie took her dog.

Moreover, her opinion had shifted since, with the time that passed and her new scaly friend. 

So, a little tentatively, she sat back and let her hand leave the remote, and watched the show.

~.~.~.~

 _The Crocodile Hunter_ became a gateway drug. Belle, suddenly gripped with a violent fascination, had bolted to her computer like a cheetah on steroids once the show had ended. It was not a foreign feeling to urge for information, but the first time she had ever became truly interested in an animal, especially a reptile she once cared not for. But that brief peak into the world of the crocodile was extraordinary, and she drooled for more. 

Documentaries, Wikipedia, scientific websites—she was hooked. It became evident the second she pulled up the first video about these creatures. Heck, she suddenly thought baby crocs and gators were effing adorable. 

Rose had migrated to her lap at some point. She was sound asleep on Belle’s lap, breathing softly as Belle stared with a deep fixation on her computer screen, lapping up every information she could find. 

Crocodiles and alligators belonged to the crocodilia class, but both were very genetically different. Crocodiles had a pointy, V-shaped snout while alligators had a more U-shaped snout, and crocodile’s fourth tooth on both sides of their bottom jaw stuck upwards, giving them a “toothy grin”—They were living fossils, existing for thousands of years long before humans. Everything about them were almost perfect—being able to survive weeks without eating, boasting the most powerful bites in the animal kingdom, and all deadly ambush hunters. 

Though all those things were neat, the most heart-moving thing Belle learned was that mother crocodiles were… actually amazing mothers. In general, crocodiles (specifically the saltwater crocodile) had the most powerful bites. Despite that, crocodile mothers have been documented as gentle with their hatchlings, having been seen and recorded gingerly scooping them up into her mouth to transfer them from the nest to the water. The mother would take care of her young for a year until the next mating season, but, surprise, surprise, the _father_ can take a mother’s place to care for his offspring if the mother is not present or available. Belle laughs at this, but then frowns as she discovers that cannibalism was common in its own species. And basically everything besides the mama, or the papa, will eat hachlings or eggs. About one out of ten croc or gator babies survive. 

And yet overal it moved her, seeing that these highly dangerous creatures have capabilities for loving and caring. She was nearly floored after reading about Pocho the American crocodile. 

She yawned, then, and rubbed her tired eyes. Staring at the computer was exhausting. Deciding to watch only one more baby croc video before bed, she then shut her computer off and scooped up Rose, who meowed in protest at being awoken. “Shh, shh, I’ve got you—“ she muttered, headed to her room. 

She showered, pulled some PJ’s on, made a little microwave mac’n’cheese bowl, and crawled into bed with her laptop, where she pulled up another crocodile documentary before falling into a deep sleep, filled with playful crocodiles and alligators and precious little chirping hatchlings. 

~.~.~.~

“Did you know that crocodiles are super motherly with their young?”

Ruby looked up from her phone to stare at Belle, who was casually sipping her iced tea. The other girl blinked and tilted her head thoughtfully, letting out a soft, “Huh. No, I didn’t. Like, with eggs or…?”

“Eggs and hatchlings,” Belle insisted, nodding with mirth. “They guard their nest for months before the babies hatch, and when they do, the mama croc carries her young in her mouth all the way to the water—without leaving one behind.”

Her wolfish friend nodded with light interest. “Well, you learn somethin’ new everyday. What brought this on?”

Smirking, Belle shrugged and took a sip of her tea. It was smooth and sweet on her tongue, cool going down her parched throat. “A sudden interest… Do we have crocodiles at the Storybrooke Aquarium?”

“Dunno,” Ruby said, shrugging. She flipped through her phone for a few more swipes before setting it down. They were on their break, and in any minute Ms. Lucas would come around to tell them to get back to work. Belle worked a part-time job here at Granny’s, and she enjoyed working next to her friend Ruby. It paid the bills, along with her add-writing job for some pharmaceutical company, and she got to socialize outside of her very scheduled life. _Sleep in the morning, work in the day, and write at night. And now ‘lure crocodile monster out of the shadows’ is another nightly task for her, too_.

“Oh—!“ Belle gasped, remembering more amazing facts, “And did you know they eat rocks to help their digestion and to sink deeper into water?”

Ruby gave her a funny look; a grin that broke out as a small, all-knowing smile to an ear-to-ear smirk. “Why, aren’t you the queen of random facts today!”

“I’m serious,” the russet-haired woman laughed, almost snorting into her tea. “Crocodiles are really cool. They’ve been around for 240 million years.”

“Okay, yeah, cool, but, Belle, common—they’re so _scary_ looking! Like, actual man-eaters! Oh my _god_ , Belle—are you about to dress in khakis and get a little safari hat to go all Steve Irwin on me?”

“No!” Belle waved the notion away with her hands. She focused in on the familiar cheerful hubbub of the dinner, and the clatter of plates and utensils. It was like her own jungle, and Belle was an animal fighting for survival in the crowd. The thought made her amused, and looked up to find Gaston, one of Storybrooke’s cops, give her a lecherous smile and a nod. Keith, Gaston’s partner in the force, pushed his friend’s face away to do the same at Belle. They bickered, then, eventually getting into an arm wrestle. _Survival of the fittest_.

“Woah, Earth to Belle!” she started, looking up to find Ruby standing up with her empty mocha mug. “Spacin’ out there, _mate_. Common, shake those tail feathers and let’s get to work. These tables ain’t gonna serve themselves.”

~.~.~.~.~

She finished her shift at five p.m. It gave her a little bit of time before sundown, so she could go home and make dinner, pack up her typewriter, and do a little leisure reading. This evening, however, she wanted to run to the library first and check out some books. Specifically ones on crocodiles.

She slipped out of her waitress uniform and put on a pair of jeans, a sky-blue shirt, all topped with a knitted white cardigan and black flats. She tied her hair in a bun with a blue ribbon, and nodded in approval at her reflection in the mirror. It didn’t make any since to just go to the library, come back home, and leave for the library again. So she packed her writing materials, and once she got to her handbag, she put in a flashlight and a packet of semi-thawed turkey legs, and hopped that her library beast would accept her offering. After a moment of thought, she put in her pepper spray and a pocket knife. Just in case.

It horrified her to think that this monster could hurt somebody, and after much thought, she came up with a plan. She would see the monster again, and would come with food every time she saw it. That way, keeping it sated, there was a smaller risk of somebody discovering it and ended up on the wrong side of its jaws. 

She said goodbye to Rose before leaving. The cat ignored her, too busy cleaning her paws to notice. Sighing, Belle locked her apartment up and trotted down the stairs. Tonight she would lure the monster into the light, hopefully without any disturbances. She knew more than she did yesterday about these reptiles, and it gave her a much braver outlook on the situation. Crocodiles were so much more smarter than people gave them credit for; they remembered the migration patters of pray animals, and studied the behavioral aspects of unsuspecting pray. They were brilliant hunters… She frowned suddenly, pausing in her skip. 

Maybe the monster was getting closer to her because it planned to eat her.

Her fist gripped her handbag tighter.

~.~.~.~

“Reptiles…Lizards…Crocodiles—“ Belle mumbled to herself as she studied the books, finger on the spines as she paced the shelves. She was a hunter herself, and was on the prowled with a vicious hunger for knowledge. Once she found the section she desired, she plucked every book that had some relevance toward crocodiles off the selves, and happily made her way to the check-out counter.

The head librarian, an elderly man named Mr. Cleary, huffed out a belly-deep laugh as she dropped the mountain of books on the counter. He was balding, but had bushy white hair on either side of her head, and always smiled when she approached him. “Research for your book?” he asked, beginning to ring the heavy tomes up. Belle smiled and opened her mouth to answer, but her voice halted in a mid squeak. 

Was it? Or was this for the monster? Crocodiles had no place in her dark fairytale about Rumpelstiltskin. Though… A spark of a new idea burned within her mind, but was doused with a metaphorical bucked of cold, sobering water before the fire shriveled up and died. 

“Uh, sort of!” she replied, chuckling nervously. It’s not like she was doing something bad, socializing with a monster. It hadn’t hurt her, yet, and she needed to do something else besides waiting paper and ink or staring uselessly at the typewriter as if a billion-dollar idea would fall out of the sky into her lap. Doing something new always got her out of a tough case of writer’s block. 

“Well, whenever you finish your story I’d love to read it,” Mr. Cleary said happily, opening the books to scan the barcodes, one at a time. “Are you close to finishing?”

“Not exactly.”

“Aw, that’s too bad. Well, enjoy your night, Miss Belle. We’re closing up soon.”

~.~.~.~

People had left ages ago; the sun not to soon after. Her lamp’s light illuminated her table well enough as she sat engrossed in the huge book that was solely based on the biology and history of crocodiles, alligators, and caimans. She was hunched over the book, reading intently as she dragged her finger along the line she was reading, softly whisper-reading to herself. Her lips moved with the words but not quite made a sound. Again, she found another tiny tidbit hinting toward the fact that some crocodile dads will look after their offspring if the mother couldn’t. It was rare for a father animal of any species to look after young.

She nodded in interest, and turned the page to find a new heading for a new section, labeled:

“ _Crocodile tears_?”

She blinked owlishly, and looked with shock at a picture of a crocodile eye, with liquid of sorts dripping down the side of its face. The saying was one she was very familiar with: fake tears, basically. But this… Reading, she nearly falls off her chair, discovering that crocodile tears were an actual thing that happened to crocodiles, and many other members of the crocodilia class. They “cried”, or generate tears from their eyes as they ate, typically after a kill. 

“Well, didn’t see that coming…”

“Didn’t see what?”

Belle screamed with surprise as a soft snort was emitted beside her left ear, blowing hair with the blast of air. Scrambling to stand, she whirled around with a white face to find the retreating form of a very green-gray individual, and that long very-crocodilian tail dragging behind it. The beast slunk back into the shadows on clawed feet, with high arched heels that obviously weren’t meant to touch the ground. It spun around before she could see the head of it, but saw the outline of its long muzzle and a toothy eternal grin before it was entirely covered in darkness. It frowned, eyes narrowed in clear distaste. “You came back,” it grunted in a thin, grating voice that had some sort of accent to it. The creature tilted its head, but stayed eerily still otherwise. “Without food. Unless you are the food.”

“I have food,” she responded quickly, and groped foolishly about to get her handbag. She pulled the packet of turkey legs out. Placing it on the desktop, she stepped around until the desk was between them. She ripped the packet open, and was pleased when she saw the beast’s nostrils flare at the smell. It looked up from the meat to her, pinching the muscles on the side of its face, where it was barely visible, into a snarling expression. It actually growled once she stepped back, and made no move to toss the meat to it.

“Do you expect me to come there like some mutt?”

She gulped. “No. You have legs. Use them.”

It growled, but did not back away, and stepped forward. 

The crocodile stood on two legs like a man, spiky tail dragging behind it. It had arms like a man, and hands that had five fingers with claws forming the mid-knuckles as fingers. Besides its long snout, crocodilian eyes, it also had… hair. A messy, knot-filled mop that seemed to grow down the center of the top of its head, falling into his eyes and around its head. Its underbelly was a softer gray color, visibly smoother, with a slight curve at its stomach. To her fascination, it had a slight bulge between its legs—nothing like a man would have: her monster just had a swell, there. As it stepped closer, she could see a slit over the slight bulge between its legs. _A cloaca_ , her mind provided. Male crocodilia were one of the few specimens that had hidden penises in their cloacae. She didn’t know if this monster was male or female, though her inner instinct hinted toward male, but didn’t want to risk any awkward misunderstandings. 

Belle made those naughtier thoughts disappear the moment the monster came to the desk, barely a foot away from her. She could probably touch its snout if she reached out. It bowed its head, eyes never leaving hers, and growled aggressively as it tentatively nuzzled the turkey meat. It did not snap it up like last night, but gingerly picked it up in its mouth. “ _You reek with fear_ ,” it mumbled, over the meat in its mouth. Without waiting for a reply from Belle, it tilted its head up and practically breathed the food it, scarfing it down with terrifying chomps, not chewing so much as it swallowed. It ate the turkey in under twenty seconds. At the most.

What moved her the most was the mistiness that clouded his eyes as he was eating.

“Tasty, but hardly enough,” it barked, and leered at her over its snout with its lips curled up, exposing the long row of teeth. “I told you to go for good, dearie. Don’t want to end up in the belly of the beast, do you?”

“No,” Belle managed to say, urging her fear to die down. “But you wouldn’t want to eat me. How else will you eat? Why risk eating someone when it could get you caught?” She managed a shaky smile. If it could talk it could understand what she was proposing.“Don’t want to end up in a cage, do you?”

This made the monster bellow, a roar-like sound that was aimed in her face. Her first thought, besides the lovely notion to run away, was that its breath _reeked_. “Oh, wow, okay—you need some tic-tacks or something. My Lord, your breath!” This wasn’t the only thing she realized, she noted, as she stood so close to it, in the light. The creature smelled. Like a sewer. It bothered her to think that this ghastly croc was swimming around bellow Storybrooke in the bowels of the sewers, peeking out of street gutters and spying on her townspeople. 

The creature snapped its mouth shut, glaring. “What the hell is that suppose to mea—Why are we having this conversation? You need to _leave_ ,” it hissed.

“Why? How else do you eat?”

“I get by. You—“ it’s aggressive expression shifted, then, and a mischievous smirk replaced it. “I see. You’re trying to make a deal with me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rumple's kinda gross right now but i promise Belle will clean him up eventually.


	4. Scaly Deals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things start to look brighter.
> 
> Hopefully.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't stop writing this fic--plz fund me and my therapy.

“Yeah. A deal.”

The crocodile smiled—if the stretch of its “lips” _was_ a smile. Blackened fangs gleamed at her from across the desk, intimidating in an unnerving way that distracted her from her train of thought. “Lucky you, my scrumptious little scrap, deals are somewhat of a specialty of mine,” it hissed, and the sound made her jump in surprise. “What I can’t wrap my mind around is why a delicious lass like you insists on staring death itself in the face.”

“I-I didn’t think the Reaper was an overgrown lizard.”

It huffed, either in amusement or offence, she couldn’t tell, but the croc tilted its head and studied her up and down. Its reptilian bronze eyes flicked to and fro over her person. A wide tongue licked along its teeth, as if mocking her of its strength compared to her own. Curiously enough, the crocodile was more reptile than man. It had a long, slender body and stood on digitigrade legs, with webbed toes and claws, and there was not much of a neck to speak of or shoulders. Its arms lay vertically by its sides, slightly bent at the elbows, and curled backwards at the wrist like some "creature creep" position. The croc snaps, “Cute. Now, what do you want of me? Make it quick—you look tastier by the minute.”

Not as perturbed by his comment like yesterday, she ignores it and licks her dry lips before answering. If she wasn’t going to prevent this monster from potentially hurting someone, who will? She’d never forgive herself if she just stayed home and forgot about this whole indecent, and some odd years later her neighbor’s eaten alive by an anthropomorphic crocodile. “I don’t want anything from you. It’s what I want you _not_ to do.”

“Ooooo.”

“H-How can I trust that you won’t go out and hurt somebody?”

The crocodile snorted, reaching one clawed hand up to pull at its hair. Its hand could barely reach. “You don’t. You forget about me and I will let you go your merry way. Case closed. Good bye, dearie, it was nice to meet you, don’t let the door hit you on the way out.”

“No,” she insisted, stepped back and waving an arm as if to gesture the obvious. “I feed you, you promise not to hurt anyone. That’s my offer.”

The huge maw of the monster opened and let out a cough-like laugh, guttural yet piercing. “You… you and your silly little ideas. How’d you know I’m planning to hurt, or have hurt, so much as a hair on anyone of your idiotic townspeople? You assume, little one. _Assume_ —makes an ass out of you and me.”

“ _Crocodiles_ are apex ambush predators,” she explained firmly, itchy from the way the monster just stared at her without blinking, except for the clear inner membrane, or “third eyelid” that would film over its eyes every now and then. “They will attack and eat anything closest that moves. It’s their nature.”

Snorting, the croc replied, “I admire your moxie, but you don’t know a thing about me—secondly, I am not _a_ crocodile, I’m _three quarters_ crocodile, thank you very much. Thirdly, yes, thank you for the meat, I haven’t eaten in at least a year, but I can go without even longer,” the croc then looked downward at the desk, and put a clawed hand on the crocodilia book. It flicked a few pages, to her worried curiosity, and paused at a page regarding eating habits. “It even says here: _These animals are typically fed once a week in captivity, yet can go months without food in the wild—in the most extreme cases, crocodilians can go three years without a single bite_. Hmmm. Now, why are you so worried?”

She wasn’t sure if she should be relieved to be informed by this spectacular fact, couldn’t understand how a monster could go so long without sustenance, or completely floored that the monster could _read_. Frickin’ _read_. How does a monster even get to be literate? It did claim the library was its home—but that couldn’t be 100% true; it smelled like it crawled out of a septic tank. Again fear gripped her soul, squeezing her bravery out like water from a sponge. She could just imagine this beast spying on her vulnerable townspeople, watching their every move and calculating the perfect attack. She could imagine him spying on the librarians here, reading to the children, and expanding his capability for reasons only God knew why. The thought terrified her, chilling her very bones. 

“Do you want me to feed you or not?” she snapped weakly, willing her to sound stronger than she felt. Her hands shook, but she folded her arms across her chest and tucked her hands under her armpits to stop. 

The croc smirked; his head tilted to the right a tad, letting her see the expanse of his bared fangs. “I didn’t say no,” it muses as it steepled its hands. “But your offer is not enough, and frankly, it’s a bit pointless. Has anyone told you you’re quite slow? Is everything I’m telling you going through one ear and out the next?”

Ignoring the insult, she goes on with, “What more could you want? Why are you even here?”

“That’s none of your business,” the monster growled. “What I want is for you to keep your mouth shut; and I need things just like anyone else.”

“What do you need?”

With an aggressive, impish titter, it moves its claws from the book to her typewriter; before she can react, it punches in a few letters, letting the click-clack of her deceive fill the silence between them. “Food, newspaper, and a cloak,” it finally stated, continuing to tap away, hitting one letter at a time with both left and right pointer claws. “Every week, let’s say Monday, you may bring me food; something small. I could consume you and three more like you, but I’ll get fat before I say _I’m full_.” The croc blinks its inner eyelids before looking up at her. “Along with your meaty sacrifices for this old beast, you will also bring the weekly newspaper. Besides this, you are to also get a cloak. Something meant for cold weather.”

“W-Why—“ 

“None. Of. Your. Business.” It spat out, emphasizing each word. The monster croc stopped typing, and straightened up its back until it stood straight as an arrow. It crossed its arms behind its back. “Do as I say and I’ll let you live.”

Sniffling, she flicked her eyes from the croc to the typewriter. She didn’t bother wondering what the croc wrote, for her mind was too busy with other haunting questions that left her quite discombobulated. “T-That seems like an empty threat,” she observed, shocked that she should still talk, albeit shakily. “You’ve been spying on me for weeks.”

“Not my fault. It’s my _nature_ , is it not?”

“But not once did you come out.”

“Waiting for the right moment,” the croc says cheerily, ignoring her gaze to continue to tap slowly at the typewriter. 

“You waited quite awhile for that moment…”

“Distracted thoughtless by the scrumptious little female perched here in the spotlight like the most exquisite, delicious dish offered up by the gods. But I’m a gentleman, dearie; I can take my time.” _So it is male…_

She shivered. The croc’s statement left her feeling hot, and not in a good way. “If I’m able to get you all of that, then you must allow me to write here, too.” 

Rolling his eyes, the croc flicked his long tail against the ground with a loud thump. She heard the scrape of its leathery scales against the hardwood. “Deal.”

“Then—then that’s all. All I want.”

The croc looked her up and down in a new askance expression. He tapped his claws together, squinting at her over his long snout. “That’s all you want? All you insist on in return, then? Just letting you tap out your silly stories?”

 _They are_ NOT _silly!!!_ “Well—yes. And that you don’t hurt me. Or anyone else.”

“Done. Food, newspaper, and cloak for me. You may write here and I do solemnly swear to leave you and your little town in peace. Not that I’m planning on strolling out in the street anytime soon.”

She nodded. At least he could agree on terms. Still, though, the crocodile was squinting at her, as if she was the alien here, and not him. Not a word came from him for a whole minute, for he just stood there and studied her, and she almost believed he was waiting for her to add another term to their deal—like he expected it. But in the end he just snorts out a grating hiss, and stepped back a few spaces, nodding his head in agreement. His fingers fiddled together as he squeaks out, “Deal! Better keep up your part of it, scrumptious, or I’ll see to it that my due is reaped.” He nods again, and turns around as if to leave.

“Wait,” she called out, louder than she meant to, but the croc monster paused and stood still. He did not look back. There were bumps on his back, blackish, and well patterned. “How—how long have you been here, exactly? In Storybrooke?”

“So many questions,” he hisses without turning, and slinks back into the darkness until he was disembodied from her eyes. “We’re done here. Tomorrow, bring me the paper; the cloak as soon as possible... Now write away, scrumptious, and remember to leave me alone.”

“My name is Belle, by the way.”

“Still calling you scrumptious.” 

~.~.~.~

Belle and the crocodile managed to leave each other alone for the whole night. She didn’t know where he went, or if he was even in the same room as her anymore, and certainly didn’t know how she could sit and expect to write when her mind was consumed by a burning set of reptilian eyes. 

Her last entry on her story was a cringe-worthy scene with Rumpelstiltskin telling his son that the boy’s mother was dead—which she was not. The crocodile, however, had left her an interesting little memo in poor spelling:

_**UR CARIKTER IS THE EMBODYMINT OF MISERY. REEDER LOOS INTERIST. GIV REEDER SOMETHING TO LAF OR SMIEL ABAOOT. MAK THEM THINK ALL IS GUD. THAN SURPRIZE THEM W/ SOMETHING VERY VERY TRAGIC. STORY IS GOING NO PLAS! BORING!!!!!** _

So. The library monster could not only walk, talk, read, and understand human comprehension, it could also _write_ (albeit like a first grader) and give helpful suggestions. 

“When did you learn to read?” She called out, rolling out the paper to place a fresh sheet in. The paper was cool and crisp in her fingers, and she sighed happily at the small pleasure of feeding it to the typewriter, rolling it in. As she expected, the croc did not respond, not even making a sound of acknowledgement. So she shrugs it off, and forces herself to forget his strangeness, his alienness, and his bizarre requests. What did a crocodile have anything to do with a newspaper? How come he desires to know what goes on in town, if clearly he had to have some sort of relation to the human world? 

As for the cloak, Belle understood on some level. Reptiles are cold-blooded animals, and they rely on the environment to have the healthy body temperature they need. It was getting cold this time of year; crocodilia species live in tropical climates—if a dry or cold seasons is approaching, the reptile with choose one of two things: migration or hibernation. The American crocodile, for example, will bury itself in the mud of a drying body of water and go “dormant”, slowing down its internal workings so much it goes into a coma-like state, and is able to wait extreme periods of time until the wet season returns. 

Again, it was getting cold out—what would the crocodile do once, and she’s assuming again, it’s cold enough to freeze the warm of a sewer? She would be happy if he just decided to go somewhere else, but it wasn’t as if he could catch a plane to a nice tropical retreat for the winter. And, if he did go somewhere warmer, would he hurt someone else?

She shook her head. He did say he could go a few years without food—a conception that flew over her head. Crocodiles lie in hiding, so still their heartbeat could slow to one beat per minute. Did the croc monster just hibernate in the sewers, and just chose to wake up now to torment her? What if he was being honest, when he said the library was his home? After all, the library was always warm.

 _Waiting_ , she mused. _Patience_. A virtue she needed more of. Apparently crocodiles were better at it than humans. 

“Does Rumpelstiltskin have patience—“ she mused, barely noticing how her fingers began to fly—how the ideas suddenly burst from her fingertips onto the keys, click-clacking away, each letter stapling down on the paper, black ink microscopically splattering as they morphed into words, into sentences, into paragraphs and pages. “—patience like a crocodile. He’s—“ she stumbled over her spoken words, too toned in with her writing. “—Rumpelstiltskin, so far, is a small man. A small, skittish man willing to mutilate himself for the sake of those he loves. Rumpelstiltskin can’t wait—“ she pauses. “—No. He waits, he hopes, he prays for better days. A day he can be happy and safe with his son—I really need to make a name for his son—and not worry about being shunned or bullied by the people of his village. But Rumpelstiltskin is a _coward—_ ”

Belle froze her hands over the keys. Before she even realized it, she had typed out three whole pages: a miracle in her cessation of writing inspiration. To think of it, she was so hung over her scene with Rumpelstiltskin’s current position, she had lost sight of where this was supposed to lead. Where Rumpelstiltskin was suppose to end up. The end goal was dark sorcerer—not sad pathetic man with no meaning in life besides caring for his son. As she realizes, her mind was too worried over Rumpelstiltskin’s misery that it prevented the story from continuing. From being interesting. Something had to happen. Something big. Indeed, as the crocodile monster, who was somewhere lurking in the dark of the same building she was in, so eloquently put it, the story was going no where. Rumpelstiltskin’s life sucked. Okay. Time to move on.

Belle suddenly smiled. 

She was breaking through her writer’s block.

 

~.~.~.~

 

Belle didn’t pack up until it was time for Mr. Cleary to come open up the library. Her fingers were numb, tingly with energy and almost painful, but in the best way possible. Blood flushed her whole face, enthusiasm burning her very veins into lava and unadulterated vitality. Hunger scratched at her belly, growling not unlike the monster who was the cause of her sudden rebirth of inspiration. But she did not want to eat—she wanted to write. Yet it was time to leave.

She gathered her things and managed to waddle to the door, wheezing with verve. It almost made her nauseous, but it was a pleasant, invigorating feeling that made her feel boundless and fertile. 

She and Mr. Cleary nearly ran into each other on the way to the door. He opened it just as she was raising her hand to leave, but with her head so far in the clouds, her mind barely had the sense to get her to halt. The older man laughed, apologizing along with her shaky, sickly reply. She wasn’t _sick_ , though. Just drunk on untapped potential.

“Miss Belle,” Mr. Cleary blinked owlishly, patting her on the shoulder. “You’re not just leaving now, are you?”

“Uh—“ she was shaking. “I am.”

The man tilted his head, eyes squinting at her through a small pare of glasses. Her own reading glasses had yet to be taken off, causing half of her vision to be blurred. She didn’t care. She just wanted to go home and write more. “Are you quite alright, my dear?” the man asked, concern filling his face as he lifted a weathered hand to feel her forehead. She shook her head to deny his concern. “You look quite flushed.”

“J-Just sleepy.” _Actually, the very opposite of sleepy._

“Well, alright…” The man looked her up and down, obviously thinking something over. “You’re home is not very close, is it?”

“Not really, no. Half hour walk, I think.”

He hums in disapproval and shakes his head. “I think I have the perfect proposition for you. As you know, I’m retiring soon; my son and his wife in Texas just had a baby, and I’d like to be closer to them—it’s family, you know? Well, I need someone to step in for me after I leave. I know you’re not a librarian, but you’ve been around longer than those too blockheads I’ve got on library duty now. Jackie’s already in a position to take over for me, but when that happens, her co-worker Wilf will take over for her current job. Wilf is sort of the “housekeeper”, if you will—“ Mr. Cleary explained, gesturing for her to follow him back inside, where he sat a satchel on the counter. He plops himself down on the chair behind it and continues. “Wilf’s job is to just make sure the library’s in good shape. He’s married and lives across town in a nice neighborhood, so the caretaker’s apartment above us is empty.”

She blinked owlishly, barely paying attention, mind filled with ideas. At the word “caretaker’s apartment”, however, she becomes interested and focuses in.

“It’s one bedroom, one bath, a little office, kitchen, dining and living room, et cetera. The bathroom has both a stand-in and a tub. Apartment is accessible through that door—“ he points to a closed off door in the far corner of this floor of the library; a door Belle wondered about for ages. Now she knew... “If you’re interested, you could be the library’s new caretaker. Cleaning and tidying up after the workday is over, books are put away appropriately, that sort of thing. You would be paid, of course, and expenses for the apartment above are free and come with the job.”

“Are—“ she hiccupped, pulling her glasses off her nose and letting them fall, slightly bouncing on her breast as they swung from the bead chain around her neck. “Are you offering me to, basically, like, like live here?”

Mr. Cleary smiled broadly. “Yes. Is this alright?”

“How much would I be paid?”

He bobs his head in thought. “Fifteen dollars an hour, give or take. Jackie would pay you.”

“That’s perfect, Mr. Cleary.”

It would be, until the thought of the crocodile returned to her mind.


	5. A Warning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Belle has a long day, and it ends in a threat.

“I swear to every religious deity that does and don’t exist, Belle, I will strangle you if you say no.“

The two young women sat at their usual booth in Granny’s during their lunch break, one hunched over dripping bellicosity and staring at the petite one from across the table, glaring daggers. Belle, unaffected by Ruby’s threat, stared down into her usual sweet tea and watched the ice cubes clink around inside her glass. She was surrounded by the usual sights of the diner, the usual feel of the booth beneath her, the coolness of their usual table and her usual drink, and the usual sound of dinners and socialites bickering and laughing eating, unbothered by the possible threat lurking in the shadows, quite possibly swimming in their waste waiting for the perfect moment to attack. 

The usual.

The question at hand, though, did not completely concern the crocodile. It was the possibility of becoming the library’s caretaker. 

There were several factors regarding the matter, none of which were easily accepted. If she _did_ take on the job, she would have unlimited access to the library, not to mention higher pay and living rent-free. The library was practically the center of town, and the location was fabulous proximity to basically _everything_.

She would also be closer to her father—a factor with both pros and cons. However, the job of a caretaker sounded too good to be true. It couldn’t be foolproof. The transition would be a massive change in her current lifestyle. 

And most importantly, there was the matter of the crocodile.

He had made it very clear he wanted to be left alone. She still had no idea how the crocodile monster got around the library, where he went during the day, or what his intentions were. There was also her heavy liability toward the croc. He did demand that she leave him alone, aside from what she’s to give him once a week. How would he react if she just—moved in? Surely he wouldn’t… barge in and harm her. Or mangle her. Or rip her limb from limb to swallow each bloody scrap of her down without a shred of remorse. 

So, was Belle able to make a change so risky? Would a new “usual” ever settle in her life after the week was out?

She was in a seriously prickly state. Her lack of proper sleep was probably showing, and the day was barely halfway through—she wouldn’t get off work until an hour from now, her weekly appoint was half an hour after Granny’s, and groceries were a must. 

“It’s not that easy, Ruby,” Belle said, flicking her eyes up from her drink to met her friend’s. “Moving across town is no easy feat. I’d have to hire movers, a truck, not to mention change my address information on a hundred different things.”

“Oh my god, do you hear yourself?! First of all, you’d be a hella lot closer to me and Gran, your dad, to the sheriff station, did I mention me?—For fuck’s sake, you’d be above the library, French! This is perfect! Unlimited access to the library. That’s, like, your wet dream! What’s stopping you?”

Belle squirmed in her seat. Maybe it was an unwise decision to tell Ruby the events of the morning with Mr. Cleary. Exhaustion was weighing her down, still, and she had spent the time she typically reserved for sleeping in favor for writing like a maniac. Being so inspired to be able to write anywhere was rare for her. The price for that, though, was the ever-consuming black hole swirling inside her, draining her life force like a leech. She was sleep deprived to the worst extent. Paranoia was beginning to set in; soon she would begin to hear tiny sounds that weren’t really there. 

If gravity didn’t take her down first.

Swaying, feeling her soul float a couple miles off above her byhond her reach, she miraculously manages to say, “Could be dangerous… A creepy guy finds out I live alone in the library…”

“Um, _hello!_ Sheriff station! Barely half a block away! Bunch of hot guys waiting to save a damsel in distress.”

Belle threw her hands up at that, a good bit woozy as she did so, but stood up, an wondered why she did as she lost focus for a moment. She still had work, but maybe she should leave early to squeeze in a nap, giving her energy to face the rest of her day. Besides, she was much too tired to deal with Ruby’s energetic self, and gladly favored voicing her exhaustion than holding on to pride. Reluctantly, Ruby nodded and hugged her farewell, promising to fill Belle’s last half-hour in for her. “Please just do it, Bellz. I know how much you want to publish a book of your own.”

“I do, and I will, Rubes. I will.”

~.~.~.~

“How have you been this week, Belle?”

Dr. Hopper’s office was a very pleasant place. It was quiet and organized, but rich in life and comfort. There was a plush couch and a shabby leather desk chair, where the good doctor himself sat. A set of shelves sat in the corners, with a large bookshelf on the other side of the room, filled to the brim in volumes of phycology. A coffee table was before her on the couch, cluttered with papers, knickknacks, and grasshopper themed articles. She predicted several of Hopper’s patients used them as fiddle toys when the need arose. She felt safe within these four walls, with the smell of books and the scented pinecones on the coffee table. 

She had bared her soul on this very couch on several occasions throughout the years. 

“Tired,” she explained drowsily. Her catnap had not helped, but it eased the nauseating dizziness. “Haven’t slept.”

Hopper nodded, smiling in understanding as he scratched a note on his papers. “Rough week?”

She searched for an appropriate statement for this question. “You could say that,” she said, fiddling with the edges of her skirt. 

Her therapist tilted his head, the light coming from the window reflecting off the sides of his glasses. Hopper’s hair looked as red as fire, in his position. “Would you like to tell?”

“Well,” she said, “I broke through my writer’s block.”

“That’s great,” he exclaimed calmly, genuine satisfaction at hearing this shining in his eyes. She studied his freckles. “Inspiration for one’s aspiration come and go like seasons. Anyone can experience a ‘dry’ period from time to time. Did your motivation come on its own, or…?”

She gave him a pale and weary expression. “I happened on something.”

“Something?”

Backpedaling with shock, she mentally face-palmed herself and cursed her sloppy reply. “Some _one_ ,” she insisted, “I happened on— met—someone. He’s, uh, pretty different.”

Hopper leaned back in his squeaky chair, tapping the edge of his bottom lip with his pen as he gave her a curious lookover. “Different how? Is he a tourist, perhaps?”

“Not exactly.”

Nodding, he lowered his pen-holding hand down to his lap where his folder lay, and scribbled down something she couldn’t see. He was always quiet as he wrote, but gave her a look that said he’d like for her to elaborate. 

“He’s, uh—a little scary. Like—like a crocodile.” Hopper freezes, his hand held still. “He keeps to himself, so he’s not really known—around. But, um, he gave me some writing advice and well, I can write again.”

This prompted the therapist to smile softly. “Appearances are extremely deceiving, Belle. Some of the kindest people can be physically offputting, while those who are handsome or beautiful can be truly beastly…. But this person you are describing sounds like someone you want to resent. What I find interesting is that you have given him credit for a breakthrough in your writing.” Hopper shifts in his chair, but keeps her gaze. “I know that you love your books as much as your writing, and you have expressed distress in the past over people who have tried assisting you in the writing department before. Is it because you find this person— _scary_ , as you say, that you can accept advice regarding your special work?”

Belle squirmed in her seat, feeling a small wave of something akin to embarrassment touch her. “I—I suppose so. Didn’t think about it.” 

He smiled again, and looked down to write a few more things. “Last week we spoke about you getting out more. Now, having a pleasure such as reading or writing is in no way a bad thing—even I do it!—but what I was worried about was your social interactions—It seems that you’ve done your homework?”

Oh. Right. Hopper asked her to go out and meet someone new. Something outside of her usual routine. The same routine she’s been following ever since she graduated high school.

_Well, that’s taken care of._

“Yeah… Oh! By the way, I was offered a caretaking job at the library.”

Hopper nearly hiccupped at her sudden change of topic. He looked a bit confused, but quickly beamed and folded his hands together. “That’s great, Belle. Things are certainly looking up for the better. Are you going to take the offer?”

“Still thinking about it…” she said, and Hopper just smiled and nodded.

The clock in his office filled the silence between them. She felt tired, still, and didn’t really want to continue talking, but their session didn’t end until 2:30, which was ten minutes from now. 

Hopper tilted his head, studying a little grasshopper figureine on the coffee table. He leaned over and picked it up, fiddling with it in his hands. After a moment of this, he said, “Can I ask you a question, Belle?”

“Of course.”

“Why crocodile?”

She gulped, “W-What?” A slight guilty feeling prickled in her chest, but she shoved it down as fast as it arose. Hopper didn’t know anything. He didn’t need to. Why was he even asking? The crocodile was her secret to keep, she never insinuated that she’d done something as reckless as “befriend” a monster, so it shouldn’t matter how she described things. But if she fed Hopper truths in disguise as a metaphor, it wasn’t exactly a flat out _lie_ —So, she shouldn’t feel guilty! 

“Why a _crocodile_? People typically use different similes to describe… scary people: Wolf. Bear. Spider. Snake. Shark. You refered him to a crocodile. Any reason?”

She narrowed her eyes. Hopper was looking intently at her over the rim of his glasses, with a long and serious face. He wasn’t writing.

“I-I don’t know,” she licked her lips. “I just—did?”

They shared a look, but Belle squirmed inside of herself, feeling threatened like an animal backed into a corner. 

“Wasn't a crocodile the reason you and your father moved here to America, Belle?”

 

~.~.~.~

An annoying blare of an alarm nudged her awake. A set of paws was being pressed against her face. Small and soft, topped with pen-like claws that flexed and came close to scratching her face, it became clear that Belle’s pitiful attempts at swatting her cat away was useless, or mentally screaming for the alarm to stop. “Alright, already, I’m up—“ she whined, rolling over on her flower-patterned-sheeted, well-worn mattress. Rose chirped in appreciation once her human began to rouse, and continued her constant rubbing and pawing until Belle flung the covers off and slapped the clock’s alarm off. “Why me…” she groaned in bitterness, forcing herself to sit up. Her bed was so inviting. Deliciously warm and the soft, familiar fabric of her grandmother’s quilt felt comforting beneath her sleep-stiff hands. 

Yawning, she stretched and slipped off the side of her bed, barely awake enough to properly put on her slippers. They were bunny slippers.

She rubbed her face as she zombie-walked to her bathroom sink, scratching off the crust that had formed last night. It was a good thing she was able to sleep so hard; a restful snooze was always invigorating. She shot a glance at the clock, reading a 11:00. So she showered, dressed in a blue blouse and an unflattering (but functional) black skirt, grabbed an apple, gathered her things, and prepared to leave. She checked her handbag, and with a reminder of last night’s threats from the crocodile, plucked out her pepper spray. _Just in case,_ she said to herself as she tucked the small canister into her panties. Easier to get to, this way.

Her neighborhood was not the nicest. Then again, her income was not the nicest either, and she was a person to appreciate whatever fate dealt her—unless, of course, fate decides to see to it that her end is in a crocodile’s maw. 

Speaking of the crocodile, she had things to get. Why an anthropomorphic reptile like him had the desire to read the _Daily Mirror_ was beyond her, given that the monster’s ability to write was poorer than a monkey’s. However, he had read that one line in her crocodilian book most fluently. That didn’t explain why he wanted to read the papers, though. Couldn’t he just sneak to the other side of the building and snag a few? He had no problem sneaking up and scaring the bejeezus out of her in the dark.

Belle ignored the sleazy leer from a rough-looking man standing outside the entrance to the 24-hour drug store. The inside the drug store was much cleaner than the outside, and she nodded to David Nolan who was the store’s cop on duty tonight. He smiled back at her and asked after her night, in which she replied it was going well. She asked after his wife and their unborn child, and was answered with a positive, prideful, and obviously exited reply. With a nod of farewell, she plucked up a shopping basket and wandered down an aisle, snagging a Halloween-themed blanket decorated in spooky shadows and dark castles. Pleased at the heaviness of it and thinking it would be a good size for the crocodile, she then made her way down an aisle for instant coffee and the like. 

She had always enjoyed visiting small stores like this. They were cozy, and typically filled with the same people she knew since coming to America. Out on the town, where the real hubbub happened, new faces were more likely to be found. 

As she was reaching for some instant coffee, the sensation of being stared at suddenly washed over her. Soft white hairs on the back of her neck stood erect, and she turned around to see the source of the issue.

Gaston Desrosiers, one of Sheriff Humbert’s subordinates on the force, was swaggering up to her with a wide smile that showed all of his pearly whites. His dark hair was slicked back, shiny with gel or grease. “Hey Belle,” he greeted, stepped up before her. He wasn’t wearing his uniform, but instead he had donned a pair of upscale trousers, a red name-brand t-shirt, and a ritzy jacket lined with pretty buttons and heavy fabric. 

“Hello, Gaston,” she greeted him cheerfully, though she didn’t particularly enjoy speaking with him, and was tired overall. She turned back to the shelf where the coffees were laid out. “Off duty, I see.”

“Yup, I’m free for the whole night and tomorrow. The chief’s on graveyard shift tonight with Hartwin and Swan and Nolan, so me and Keith’s free as a bird.” Gaston smiled in a boyish kind of way, but it sent an uncomfortable shiver down her spine. He’d always gave off an air of confidence. Like now. “Wanna grab a drink?”

“Um,” she reached out and grabbed a random coffee container from the shelf, and tossed it into her basket with more force then necessary. “I’m sorry, Gaston, but I’m busy weeknights. You know that.” _Everyone knew that. It was why Emma knew where to find me Tuesday night._

His hopeful expression fell, but it was recovered quickly with a puppy-dog face. “That’s too bad. Can I take a rain check?”

“Alright,” she said, merely to get him to leave. Hurrying her pace, she began to walk down the aisle and to the next, where she snagged a couple of cans of ready-to-eat tuna salad. It wasn’t as if she hated him. To be honest, he did have a certain chin to him that enticed her to think of an interesting trademark for a book character. A means to a unique story. Like a certain story she really wanted to continue writing. 

Maybe spending time with Gaston wasn’t such a bad idea; in fact, she thought with a puckish smile, his blockheaded determination might inspire her story’s character development. After all, it wasn’t _just_ about Rumpelstiltskin. 

“Sweet—I’ll see you sometime this weekend?”

Besides, even she deserved a little fun now and then. What was the harm in going on one date? Hopper said she needed to get out more, anyway. 

She smiled at him. “Definitely.” 

 

~.~.~.~

 

“Hello?” Belle called out after using her key to unlock the library door. She peered around, her wary blue eyes scanning for a certain reptilian specimen. But to her sobering dread, the lamp she kept on during her nightly hours has been turned off, leaving the whole floor dark with eerie shadows of intangible shapes. The smell of the library soothed her, however, and gave her enough courage to sneak inside. Quiet as a mouse, she closed the door behind her and locked it back, gulping as the sound emitted loader than desired. She jerked her head around facing the whole of the library, eyes wide and staring unseeingly. 

The unknown was always frightening to her. Research, be it in a book or a upfront exploration, was the cure to this, and since her latest fascination, her previous dislike for crocodiles and their cousins had diminished significantly. Lots of facts could be discovered about these reptiles—but nothing regarding the monster in the library. To that, she was left on her own to figure him out.

“Uh, Mr. Crocodile…?” she called out cautiously, curiously, tentatively moving forward with her arms out to feel around. “I’ve got you a nice big blanket…” In the dark she was blind as a newborn kitten, therefor more vulnerable. The crocodile had the gall to lick her cheek the last time she was in this situation! With zero light, who knew what he would do to her? 

She snagged her phone from her bag, and turned the flashlight on, giving her all the light she needed to see where she was going. Comforted, she headed toward her desk. Once she got to the lamp, she could get some real light on.

But then she tripped over something. Something thick. The breath was sucked from her as she fell forward, hands flying out to break her fall. Her glasses bent beneath her torso, poking her collarbone painfully. The typewriter left her hand and clattered loudly against the floor, with her handbag smacking hardwood not long after. The handle twisted around her hand. 

“Well,” mused the eerily thin voice she had come to know. She didn’t bother answering because she was too busy trying to process her surroundings, and groping the ground for stability. She glared halfheartedly in the direction of the disembodied voice. The horn-like scales (scutes) dug into her ankle. Rolling over onto her back and pulling up her legs was a clumsy move on her part, but the need to be facing the croc, to at least defend herself if he did attack, seemed a sound solution. “If I truly did have the nature of my more beastly cousins, I’d be quite happy my dinner went ahead and downed itself for me. And oh _yes_ do keep that position—I have the perfect opportunity to cut open your tender underbelly and decorate the place with your entrails! How’s that sound, scrumptious?” 

A bit of Belle pondered over the revival of her assumption of his “nature”, and questioned whither the monster’s feelings were on a human level like his comprehension. But her musing didn’t last long, and with lightning fast speeds she rolled over again, understand the vulnerable state she was in before. Still, though, her foremost instinct said to face danger and know what it was going to do, not guard her “underbelly”.

“G-Good evening to you to, Mr. Crocodile,” she greeted shakily, scrambling up to stand. It was frustrating how she’d already lost her destination, and stood lost in the blackness of the library. Brushing off smut from her blue flare dress, she stared unseeingly ahead, letting her senses strain to get an awareness of her surroundings. “I’ve brought you a blanket. I—uh, I’ll get you a paper from the lounge.”

“Hmm. ” The crocodile’s tail shiftlessly dragged the ground, the sound of its claws clicking against the floor. She heard him grunt, followed by the sound of her typewriter case being picked up off the ground. _What’s he doing?_ She wondered with a growing worry, and moved closer with an arm out. _His things aren’t in there! He should know that!_

“What are you doing!?” she demanded. 

“Breaking it!” He chortled.

She gasped in fear and moved to stop the crocodile, if possible, not caring for a moment if she was likely weaker. But to her shock, the tail of the horrid beast abruptly struck the back of her knees with an alarming amount of force. Crying out, she was pushed to the ground—yet again defenseless. 

“Ah, ah, ah,” said the crocodile nearing somewhere close by, where he suddenly placed a hand on her back, kneeling beside her. “So fiery—I was only jesting, dearie. Don’t take everything _so_ seriously.” 

Squirming under the monster’s looming figure with her heart tattooing a wild beat against her sternum, Belle stuttered out, “P-Please, don’t frighten me like that! I—“

He growled her to silence as he moved his hand down her back, putting enough pressure on her that she felt the poke of its claws through her shirt. That clawed palm dragged against the lacing of her garment, catching on the design. She was quickly petrified and heaved with a choked sob, quaking on her stomach against the cold unforgiving floor of the library. Her anxious breath, hot and humid, fogged against the slick and dirty floorboards. Like a mouse being pinned by a cat whose intentions was more playful than hunger-based. Still, like the mouse, she squeaked and squirmed helplessly under the weight of the predator above her, behind her. A warm tear managed to bubble through her crumbling bravery, and trickled down the side of her nose, then into the corner of her mouth, where she tasted the salt against her chapped lips and dry tongue. 

To her rising terror, the beast’s hand moved down to her rear, where it gently squeezed the side of her hip. It was just over her canister of peper spray, leading to the crocodile to let out a curious purr. His claws dug into the waistband of her skirt, and roughly tugged it to gather around her hips, exposing her bare thighs and white-lace panties. 

Horrified, she suddenly understood what the crocodile meant to do. With a broken attempt to scream, she was roughly silenced when the hand holding her down struck out and grabbed her mouth. Voiceless and screaming into his leathery palm, she began to thrash and kick her limbs wildly as a new kind of fear filled her veins. Surely, surely, he wasn’t interested in _THAT…_!?!?!

The crocodile shamelessly shoved his other hand into her panties, plucking out the thin black canister of pepper spray. As if it was all normal and fine, he tossed it to the side, vanished far off, and let go of her waistbands to let them snap back against her skin. He squeezed the side of her hip with more friction, more meaning, before letting go. She heard a soft sigh come from her molester, a low yet disturbingly pleased sound sending shivers down her spine like millions of tiny ants tickling down her back. The crocodile’s sounds did not sound aggressive, so much as it did like… dark aspiration. 

The touching ended within seconds. Belle, mutely crying out in relief as the beast moved away, laid still only for a second before scrambling to stand. In the process, she bumped into a shelf, knocking a few books off. The beast grunted, but she heard him move away from her. She then heard her phone being picked up—the light was still on, so as it was lifted off the ground and the light exposed to the air, she saw the ghastly face of her company. He snarled his teeth, and thrust out the hand holding the phone toward her. “Maybe you’d be less clumsy if you threw out those ridiculous heels of yours.”

Mute, she weakly reached out to take her phone. She was careful not to brush her fingers against his claws. Once she had her phone, she aimed the light at the beast. His pupils narrowed vertically, gleaming back at her in that strange mottled face. 

The crocodile already moved to retreat, but did so in the direction of her workspace. There, he pulled the little switch on the lamp with a flamboyant flick of his wrist and dropped her typewriter case on the desk. The way he held his claws reminded her of spider fingers—or a woman who just got her nails done. 

“Come, come,” he motioned, and she gulped as she bent to retrieve her handbag. With shaking hands, she managed to gingerly pick it up and make her away to the beast. “Now, what have you brought me, hmm? Something about a blanket?”

She couldn’t speak. She couldn’t think. All she could feel were his claws all over her, ghosting over places she’d never let anyone touch before, besides her own curious caresses. Forcing herself not to cry or call 911, she tiptoed closer. Keeping her eyes on his every move, even a blink, she dug a hand into her bag to retrieve the blanket. The crocodile caught it in one hand as she tossed it over.

She protectively crossed her arms around herself, then.

“Oh, come now,” hissed the beast as he hugged the bundle to his chest. “Don’t act like I’ve stolen your cherry, scrumptious. Chin up, stop looking so _donnert_. Ah—Aaaand you’re still—clenchy. Stop clenching. Seriously—“ he let out a low whine and lowered his muzzled, slapping a band of skin across his snout, beneath his squeezed-shut eyes. “A’right, fine, sorry for coppin’ a feel—not really my fault, anyhow. You had that nasty red stuff in your knickers! What’d we do if it went off while brushing up against your plush petals?”

She flushed darkly from both ears. _Lord, he's cruder than Keith_. Sniffling, she manages to stutter out, “H-How—How do you know what pepper spray is?”

The crocodile snorted. “You ask many, _many_ annoying questions. Why don’t you use that energy to run along and go get me this week’s issue?” He prompted, and drags over an armless chair from one of the surrounding tables. Turning the chair around, he plops down backwards with the grace of a gangster with his thick, long tail curled in a slight C shape behind him. “Tick-tock, dearie!”

_Tick-tock, my arse._

She hated the crocodile with a sudden, violent passion in that moment. How dare he, she fumed within, how _dare_ he grope her like some common street whore and brush it aside as if nothing. He was tremendously rude, brash, and downright audacious in all the wrong ways. And yet, with him flashing his teeth at her over the typewriter case, she somehow managed a watery glare as she shuffled away, refusing to put her back to him. 

He was unpredictable. She had to remember that.

With the aid of her phone and at a safe distance from the beast, she made her way to the other side of the library.

Storybrooke Public Library had a little corner frequent patrons called the Moon Room. The walls were an ugly shade of eggplant purple, and three ancient newspaper dispensers sat in the farthest corner. There was a soda machine buzzing dimly and a few lonesome tables and chairs, serving those who wished to buy from canteen, or the librarians on their lunch breaks. 

She flicked on the light switch to the Moon Room and clicked her flashlight off. Warm air from the vent above greeted her as she stepped inside the room.

It was called the Moon Room because of a very unfortunate event years ago, before Belle even arrived in Storybrooke. To make a long story short, Mr. Cleary and his librarians at the time tried setting the library up for “space week”, and had a little misfortune with glow and the dark paint meant for a crafted moon model. 

Those present for this event claim the room had a little of that “moon glow” for a whole year.

“Why can’t you just break into the dispensers yourself?” she called out, her voice in no way friendly, but she didn’t feel brave enough to reprimand the beast. A chortle was her response. 

“Look up!”

She did, and with knitted eyebrows, spied a camera sitting stealthily in the far left upper corner of the room. It was pointed at her. 

“Gotta hide money somewhere, right, scrumptious?” mused the crocodile from a distance. “Gotta watch for thieves.”

“Oh,” she muttered, pulling out her change. She gathered up three different papers, one being Storybrooke’s, another from Boston, and the third _USA Today_. 

“I got them—” she started once she returned to her work area, but froze up for the one-hundredth time that night once she saw what the crocodile was doing.

He had set up her workspace. The typewriter case was sitting neatly by one of the desk legs, empty and casual in its position. On the desk sat her machine, with the ink ribbon cartage pulled out and opened for the world to see. Her frighteningly new acquaintance was still sitting backwards on the armless chair, faced toward the typewriter with a stack of papers in his claws. 

He shuffled them around to reorganizing the order, and did not bother to look up. “You have several gaps,” the crocodile commented, finally glancing up to meet her scarified eyes. “Names, for instance. This _is_ your first draft?”

“Of course it is,” she breathed, marching over with alien courage. She flung the newspapers down and snatched her pages up, glaring more daggers than she honestly knew she had. “Please don’t go through my stuff again. I agreed to stay out of your business, and you must agree to do the same. I’ve gotten you what you asked for, so please stop taunting me now.”

The crocodile sniffed, flaring his fingers out dramatically over what she assumed was his heart. “I would never taunt a lady!”

“Your morals are in need to be questioned.”

“Touché.”

He flicked his tail, the tip brushing against the toe of her shoe, as he focused in on the stack of newspapers. With a high-pitched chirp of glee, he gathered them up and brushed her typewriter across the table. She eyed him wearily as she took her spot across from him. There was still the matter of telling him about the caretaker offer. This morning, she had been nervous over the thought, but now, knowing this thing had more… interests… outside of food and shelter (and newspapers?), she was… honestly terrified. But, she had to ask, and sitting here like a bump on a log would get her nowhere, if not deeper into tension with the crocodile. Talking was good. Talking was always good.

“Mr. Crocodile?” she began, keeping her head down and eyes trained on the stack of papers in her hands. 

“Hm?” he mumbled, voice no longer high or impish, but deep in thought. Leathery brows dented, he seemed too busy riffling through the news.

“I was offered a job, as a caretaker, and I need to know if you will let me live here, above the library.”

The crocodile was so into his reading that she wondered if he even heard her. However, after a moment of silence, he slowed down his rapid page flipping, and blankly stared at a heading about a rise in gas prices. Only her anxious heartbeat filled the void between them. 

Licking her lips, she went to speak again, but he beat her to it. 

“You want to _live_ here?”

He spoke coldly, without his perverted goading taunts from earlier. Somehow, she found, it sounded worse than his impish behavior. Speaking like this, it reminded her of the first time she approached him. He was much more colder, then.

Taking a deep breath, gathering the scatterd bits of her bravery, she manages a strong and firm, “Yes.”

The crocodile’s eyes shifted upwards to meet hers, snout still slanted downward. 

In her books on crocodilia, a crocodilian would raise its head high to show submission, exposing the softer underside of its jaw. This was typically done in courting. With her crocodile, though, he kept his head down.

She cursed herself for not bringing anything else for self-defense.

“I thought I told you to leave me alone besides your weeknights.”

“I know,” she breathed. “But this job would give me so much—I am a quiet person, I swear! I’ll never venture out before night on weekends and still keep our deal—“

As she blabbered away, she noticed the crocodile continue to stare at her with big, frightening eyes like a hawk eyeing the shrew. He said nothing, just watched her eerily over the bridge of his muzzle.

“Shut up,” he finally said, silencing her with a single wave of his hand. He reached out and grabbed a lock of her hair before she could move, forcing her to be still, though her heart beat faster than a rabbit kick. “You’re going to listen to me very carefully. Do you understand, _dearie?_ ” He spat. “Just because I’m gonna let you slap your keys out to write some fairytale fanfiction bullshit does not, _does not_ , mean you can waltz your pretty little arse all over the place and expect me to bend backwards to your every little whim. Today, it’s a job. Tomorrow, it’ll be help to move a fucking couch. Next month you’ll be asking me to avenge your broken little heart over some eejit who cheated on you with some bimbo.” With a cruel twist, he let go of her hair in favor of her jaw. He squished her cheeks and lips together in a _O_ shape. “I’m not your fucking pet. I’m not your ally, I’m not your chum, and you better be sure a hell I’m not your friend.” He leaned in, close enough so that his nose was centimeters from touching her own, and close enough that she could smell his dank fetor. Her rapid breath fogged against his gray-green skin, hot in contrast to his chilly claws digging painfully into her cheeks, but she kept staring back and fought every urge that told her to cry and give up. 

He hadn’t hurt her. She was valuable to him. He _wouldn’t_ hurt her.

But she could never trust him. He was too unpredictable, too untrustworthy despite his claim toward of being an expert in deal making. If he wanted to be beastly—fine.

Through a distorted mouth, she says, “I’ll never see you as anything more than a monster.”

With that, the crocodile let her go as if she’d burnt him. She was pushed away and fell clumsily back into her own chair, shaken. The chair he was sitting on clattered to the floor with a loud bang, and he glared at her with such passion like she’d never seen before. 

“And that’s how it’ll always be,” he hissed, and used his maw to manically snatch up the newspapers, though they crumbled like tissue paper in his jaws, and the blanket lying on the floor. He dropped to all fours like some strange looking pony, still shooting her a look she couldn’t describe. Muffled through a full mouth, the crocodile backed away into the shadows as it warned in a strained, frighteningly menacing voice, “Do whatever the fuck you want but leave me the hell out of it—You are to never seek me out, not even to try fattening me up with raw meat. And if I can so much as smell that fuckable cunt of yours within a meter, next week’s menu’ll be mayor’s son on a _stick_. Got it, _**scrumptious**_?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Chapter: Belle begins to move into her new home, meets the mayor's son, and her crocodile gets a name.
> 
>  
> 
> Also: Tell me what you guys think about more chapters in Croc!Rumple's POV! Should they be separate mini stories in the "Scute To Me" series, or extra bonus chapters in CT?


	6. Box of Teeth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Belle has a nightmare, meets Henry, and goes on a "date" with Gaston. Of course, it doesn't go as planned.
> 
> Cue _Peter Pan_ references.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _“Besides their bite, crocodiles are known especially for their teeth, and these fearsome reptiles have around sixty to seventy of them. What’s more interesting is that crocodiles are polyphyodonts. They can replace a lost tooth with a brand new one, similar to sharks. They can replace each tooth fifty times in their lifespan… Which can last seventy years to a whole century.”_

The events of Thursday night left Belle void. So void that she couldn’t do much besides fix her typewriter’s ink ribbon and sit at her desk like a bump on a log. In fact, she was a little empty as to what to do next. There was no point in staring at a blank page as if her inspiration would just fall into her lap out of the blue.

A bit cross, she packed up her things around 2:24 am and left the library for home. The entire way she felt a storm brewing within her, accumulating more moxie and anger than need be. She huffed and puffed as she shuffled her way inside her old apartment. 

“Do you ever just _really do not_ get somebody?” she asked aloud, dropping her things on her couch as she plopped down dramatically. Rose, greeting her tentatively with her long tail straight up in the air, chirped as if to answer. The cat butted her hair against Belle’s leg, and the young woman sighed tiredly. She needed to eat, she needed to sleep. Overall, she really just needed to take better care of herself. There were bags under her eyes and her breasts were beginning to loose a little volume. 

Worry was gnawing at her heart like a flesh-eating virus. Her monster had been crude and perverse toward her tonight, and their parting words were him threatening to eat a _child_ if he could so much as smell her. Violent, terrifying imagery filled her mind; every worst possibility playing over and over like a broken record. 

What if he broke their deal without honest reason to do his diabolical deeds? How did he know Storybrooke’s mayor had a son? Why did the monster explode on her with such fierce cruelty when she asked to move in? 

Too many questions, too little power to do anything about it.

That terrified her even more. Enough so that her hands shook.

Though she was nauseated, she whipped up a tuna salad sandwich with a side of grape tomatoes before sitting down before her computer to check the Pulitzer Prize website. That always comforted her, and she sighed dreamily imagining her own book up in the Fiction section. No work had been selected for the 2012 winners, and she indulged herself in a fanciful reverie. _Hmm, I still need a title for my book…_ she reminded herself, taking a bite out of her tasty sandwich. The garlic salt and mayonnaise she’d mixed the tuna with spread across her tongue in a bloom of flavor, contrasting nicely with the crunchy toasted bread. Popping a grape tomato into her mouth, she mused over her awful acquaintance’s criticisms. 

Her writing so far was indeed a rough draft, a rocky outline of the overall story. Indeed, though, it had many gaps, like names of people, places, and important points in Rumpelstiltskin’s life that needed more reason to even exist, and meaningless jumbles of words that provided no meat to the overall tale. 

_It’s not like I have to listen to him_ , she thought bitterly, _he’s not even human, and he writes like a first-grader anyway. Humph!_

She whipped her hands together as she finished eating, gulping down one last bite of crust. Rose mewed at her feat, and she chuckled as she put her plate on the ground. Her cat enthusiastically licked up the remaining tuna. “Well, at least you appreciate me feeding you.”

Tired and jittery with nerves all at once, she cleaned up and got ready for bed. Tomorrow would be a new day—new opportunities. Tomorrow, she would call Mr. Cleary and accept the job. Tomorrow, she would seek Henry Mills out and make sure he wasn’t in danger. Tomorrow, she would go out on a date.

Tomorrow, she would definitely not break down and die from a fear-induced heart attack.

 

~.~.~.~

 

_She was standing on the beach._

_Her family was laughing together around a foldup table on the beach, grilling good food and making memories. The sun was just beginning to set on the ocean’s horizon. Sea wind blew through her messy coppery hair, sharp in her nose. She could almost taste the salt on her tongue._

_Her dog was beside her. It barked happily around her feat, faithful to a fault. She giggled and beckoned her furry four-legged companion to the sand. Sand was squished between her bare toes, wet from the tide, but she laughed and jumped and played without a care in the world. It was Christmas, and her whole family was here. Papa was cooking, wearing his ratty, stained apron that said “Kiss The Cook”, and Grandma was bickering over the table situation, and Uncle Phil was playing his harmonica._

_The girl and her dog went further out into the beach, closer to the water. She did not pay attention too much besides the scents and feels around her, and frolicked like a wanton fawn at play._

_Suddenly, Belle noticed a bumpy log laying in the sand, with nothing else around. She became curious, and her adventurous nature urged her on to explore the unknown. Skipping across the sand, footprints behind her, she approached the lumpy thing with a stick she had found earlier. Her dog yapped loudly. It tugged at her to leave._

_She ignored the dog, and pranced around the log with glee. Once she was ready enough to near it, she tiptoed closer and poked it._

_The log had a mouth. A mouth—a maw—full of sharp teeth. It yawned, she thought, but watched with shock as it lunged at her, hissing like the dinosaurs on Jurassic Park. The monster snapped and roared, blood suddenly running out of its mouth and hideous snake eyes, dripping over the slick scales covering its face. Meat was grounded in its teeth as screams filled the air._

_In horror, she stood and watched on as her faithful friend and protector was eaten alive, ripped to pieces like a goddamn stuffed animal in a shredder. Blood and flesh and bone was torn before her wide blue eyes, splattering her legs and hands. Entrails was chewed as muscles were bitten into, spilling across the once-pristine sand like buckets of red paint._

_She couldn’t move, she couldn’t scream, she could only stand and watch, stare, as this monster began to back away toward the water with the mangled remainds of her—_

_A gunshot was fired at the monster. Someone had come, and began shooting the monster with a shotgun. The monster roared in pain as it dropped the its pray, but turned toward its attacker with an open mouth, hissing angrily. When it wasn’t enough, an ax was taken, and someone brave enough, braver than Belle, so so much braver, went behind the monster and began to bring the blade of the ax down upon the vile creature. More blood flew; skin was split open like cut chicken._

_Belle stood like a statue, unmoving. She could hardly breath._

_Blood was spilt more and more, turning the sea red as red could get; an ugly stain marred into the ruined evening. It flooded as the plague did, turning everything dark and bloody. It came to her feet, her knees, her waist, her chest, her neck, her face, into her mouth and nose and eyes, her ears and into the pores of her skin. It broke her open, crushing her bones and organs together as if she was nothing._

**_“BELLE! STOP!”_ **

….

Belle jerked violently awake. She shot up in her bed, panting wildly as a cold sweat dampened her dressing gown and brow, down her nape and pooling around the small of her back. A feverish spell ran through her veins, stabbing her with threats of tears and sobs. Unable to stay still, she threw off the covers and got out of bed, shaken to the point of nausea. 

Rose, who had been sleeping by her head, got up with a startled chirp. The small cat padded down the bed as Belle ran to the bathroom, only to run to the toilet, clumsily fall to her knees and retch prematurely.

Warm vomit smeared the side of the seat and the corner of her mouth, sticking to her long mangled hair. It went untended to as she retched again, purging her stomach of its semi-digested contents. It burned the back of her throat, stinging her watery blue eyes as she kneeled hunched over the icy porcelain bowl. Dry-heaving, she laid her head against the side of the seat. The acidic taste of her own sick was bitter on her panting tongue. 

She felt sick and dirty all over. Shaken, frightened, and despondent. Her heart raced in her chest, painful against her sternum. 

“Ugh,” she moaned, pulling herself up. Miraculously, she managed to get to her feet and go to the sink, where she washed her face off. Cleanup came next, when she felt her stomach settle enough.

The house was quiet, save for Belle shuffling about the bathroom, on her hands and knees, cleaning up the contents of her stomach. She tidied up with detached effort, and timidly glanced in the mirror every now and then. Her pale, tired face was what she’d always see.

Sleep was no more, it seemed, as she wrapped things up in the WC before making her away to the living room. She took care of Rose’s needs before checking the clock. It read 4:20. 

Today was Friday, and her shift at Granny’s begun at 11:30. That gave her all day to have leisure time; however, her list of things to do before the sun set was more pressing than freewriting or reading. Besides accepting Mr. Cleary’s job offer, she had to put in a notice of leave with Granny.

She rummaged her apartment for her phone, but when she found it, she threw it down with a sudden, violent burst of hate.

Yesterday she had changed her phone’s wallpaper to a drawing of Tick-Tock, the crocodile from Disney’s _Peter Pan_.

She really didn’t want to see Mr. Crocodile again, either, in that moment. 

 

~.~.~.~.~

 

Belle felt significantly better once she showered and dressed. She donned her favorite sapphire-blue lace flare dress, paired with a pair of plain black flats and black-rimmed glasses, which hung around her neck on a delicate silver chain. 

She made a little breakfast for herself and called Mr. Cleary once she knew he would be awake. She accepted the caretaker’s job, to which the elderly man was pleased to hear. After, she read a little to clear her head, deciding to take it easy before facing the day. Once she was ready to leave for Granny’s, she grabbed her phone (she changed the wallpaper to a cute picture of Rose) and handbag before sweeping out the door to work.

~.~.~.~

 

She didn’t know much about Henry Mills, besides the bucket loads of gossip that occurred last year when Emma Swan drifted into town. It was a known fact that the mayor—Regina Mills—adopted him, but not much was known on his birth mother. As for the events that lead to the discovery of Swan and Mills Jr.’s biological relation, Belle knew next to zip. She did know, however, that Henry was one of Mary Margret’s students, and she often boasted about his smarts in school, especially in the literary department. She also knew that he was at least eleven, and had a mop of dark brunette hair and fair skin. 

It was a relief to be out of the diner once her shift was over. Feeling a little lighter once breathing clean air, she felt brave enough to venture around Storybrooke for Henry. A plan came to mind, as she walked down Main St.. Purhaps she could go to the school and ask Mary Margret where Henry was—with a good lie about giving him a book or something.

Fate, however, was in her favor today. Just out of the corner of her eye, near the swaying orange trees of autumn, a small child-sized figure dashed across the street toward the ocean. He had dark hair and wore an expensive-looking parka. Curious and hopeful, she began jogging in the boy’s direction. 

It was definitely Henry, Belle noted, seeing him turn his face once to check his surroundings out. He had just come from school, and his backpack was slung across one shoulder. Under his arm was a huge book, probably bigger than his head, with a faded cover. Eventually he began to slow down near the docks, a rocky place that was more of a sea-cliff than a beach.

He ran behind a wall of rock, out of her view.

Panting, she followed to the place and found Henry squatting in front of a section in a wall of the small cliffs. The boy set his big book beside him on a flat rock, and reached into one of the crevices of the rocks and pulled out a small box. To her curiosity, he then reached into his pocket and pulled out a small key; he used it to open the box. Then, he pulled out a small object from his pocket that was wrapped in tissue. 

When he dropped it into the box, Belle gasped aloud. _It was a crocodile tooth!_

The noise she made did not go unnoticed. Henry’s head shot up, and his wide hazel-green eyes pinned on her like a rabbit spotting a rabid dog. 

He did not scream in fright, but suddenly a knowing smile bloomed on his face. Henry exclaimed, “You must be Belle!”

 _How does he know my name?!_ “Uh, um, I—“

“I _knew_ you would know something!”

Suddenly confused, she met his gaze with her own. The boy picked up his book and hugged it tight to his chest. Over the bitter sea wind, he said aloud, “I first saw it here year ago, when the tide was in… My mom said you work in the library at night.”

“Yes, I do.”

“Do you see it too, there?”

Belle’s blood began to churn. She licked her lips and said, “Well, that depends on what you mean by ‘it’.”

Henry put down his book in favor for his small box. He reached out to show her the contents.

Inside were teeth. Crocodile teeth.

There were about five of them; most were the size of Belle’s thumb. The biggest, and what seemed to be the freshest, had dried blood at the roots.

“Wha—“

“So did you see it? Did you see the monster?”

 

~.~.~.~.~

Belle could say nothing except follow mindlessly when Henry grabbed her hand, and persuaded her to squat down beside him in the closure of the short cliffs. The second he got her to sit down in the sand, he slapped his big book down into his lap beside her.

“I was here exploring last year, and I found this weird scaly thing over there—“ he pointed to a smoother part of the beach, where the evening tide touched the sands. “When I went to check it out, it woke up and roared at me! I kid you not—it was a monster! A _real_ monster!” Henry said adamantly, opening the huge book while scrubbing off some sand. He opened the book up to a page where old drawings of crocodilian anatomy was depicted. “And it looked a little like this.”

She was mute, but continued to listen to the boy. 

“I found this fang the other day at the library, under the shelf.” He held up the tooth, and then laid it down on the pages beside a row of crocodile teeth. “See? Maine doesn’t have crocodiles. It’s got to be in the tunnels.”

“…The tunnels?”

“The old mining tunnels. They’re abandoned, but that’s the only other place besides the sewers. Plus, like a eighty years ago when Storybrooke was only a miner’s town, there use to be a factory where the library is now—it would lead to the tunnels!” Henry shook hair out of his face, but it was futile for the sea wind blew it into messiness once more. “I’ve tried to tell Emma, but she doesn’t believe me yet. But you’ve seen it too, right? You work in the library.”

Henry was looking so desperately at her, eyes wide and demanding her to understand. She felt an immediate sympathy for the boy—a kindred spirit of sorts… But this was dangerous. _Very_ dangerous. Belle had believed that she was the only one privy to the crocodile monster’s existence, but now she knew she was wrong. But apparently she shared that bit of knowledge with this boy, who had barely reached puberty. 

That was a major reason why Belle should probably tell him she’d been headed here for other reasons, that running into him was by coincidence, and that this whole thing was a child’s fantasy so she could walk away for good. Keep him in the dark. It was safer if he didn’t know a monster was running around under their town. 

But if she told him the truth, this passionate boy would probably pursue his ideé fixe—and end up in the belly of the beast.

Belle was _not_ about to let that happen. 

Brushing a lock of her hair behind her ear, she decided not to indulge the boy’s findings. True, the teeth were solid evidence, but they could be brushed aside as real crocodile teeth… Or endanger the monster—not that she _liked_ the monster very much right now, but she _had_ made a deal with him… She was supposed to keep his secret.

_‘…Now write away, scrumptious, and remember to leave me alone.’_

“Henry, have you told anyone else about this?”

Henry sniffed, and deposited the tooth back into his pocket. Shutting his book, he says, “Just you and Emma, who’s my real mom. You believe me, right? You _must_ have seen it.”

“This, this—this monster—It’s likely it was an escapee from the aquarium. They have gators, right?”

The boy’s hopeful expression did not falter—in fact, it lit up like a Christmas tree. “You _have_ seen it! I am right! You’re just keeping it a secret so people don’t panic… That’s pretty smart!”

“H-Henry, that’s not—“

“Don’t worry! I won’t tell, especially not my mom. She hates reptiles. Why don’t we give this a code name? So no one else knows.”

“Wai—“

“How about— _Operation Cobra_. Cobras are reptiles too, like crocodiles. Makes sense, huh? I think we should explore the tunnels sometime to find it. Maybe Emma can come too.”

“Oh no, Henry, _no_ —“

“ _HENRY!_ ” called a distant, agitated voice. Henry’s head shot up and looked a little embarrassed for a moment, but stood up and brushed sand off himself. Belle smacked her dry lips, and tired to queel the shivering muscles in her tummy. 

“That’s my mom. I better go. It was nice to finally meet you, Belle!” 

~.~.~.~.~

After her rushed meeting with Henry Mills, Belle made her away to Town Square for a little leisure time. That, and she had to meet up with Gaston at one point or another.

Finding him was no harder a task than finding Henry, but he treated her with less innocence, and more forwardness. He told her there was a part tonight by the docks, in which he and his friends were running. A couple of their girlfriends would be there as well. That was a bait for her, she knew, to tempt her into a more comforting regard over the party. 

Though parties were not her ideal choice to spend an evening, Gaston bribed her into it, and the thought of seeing new scenery, and gaining more book ideas, convinced her to go. Gaston, too, was nice enough. When she told him of her upcoming move, he offered his and his partner in blue’s assistance. If all went well, and Gaston was a proper gentlemen by the end of the night, she might actually think of dating. 

Dating. 

Yet another terrifyingly new phenomenon for her.

So Belle find herself going home after sharing a drink with Gaston, readying herself for this beach party. 

She chose to wear a yellowy winter dress, paired with white tights and old black flats. To keep warm, she wrapped herself up in a heavy white coat. 

“Wish me luck, Rose,” Belle said to her cat, who turned her furry back to her mistress to clean her dainty paws. Shrugging, Belle made her way out of her apartment.

~.~.~.~.~.~

“Hey, Belle!” Gaston waved at her at the edge of the beach’s sands, beckoning her over with a beefy hand. Wind blew around her as she walked up to him; it was not her intention to greet him with more than a smile, but he grabbed her by the waist and twirled her around. Gasping, she begged to be put down as she grappled with his shoulders for support.

He did, but directed her down to the beach, where a portable grill had been set up. A few beach chairs had been set up around a little bonfire, with a cooler filled with beer bottles sitting close by. A few people where already sitting around the fire, lounging and laughing as they sipped their drinks. She spotted Keith, Robin, and another man she did not know who was tending the grill. There was two other women, older than Belle, who were there as well. She did not know either.

Keith flashed her a lecherous smile, to which she ignored, but the others greeted her politely enough. 

The man unknown to her introduced himself as Rogers; he was taller than her with a chiseled face, with neatly groomed stubble. There was a gold loop earring in one of his ears. When he smiled at her, she spotted a silver tooth. He reminded her of a pirate.

When he held his hand out to shake hers, she smiled softly and grasped his offered hand with tenativness. 

To her slight horror, however, his hand gave way and Rogers was left without one.

“Woah! Hey now, no need to panic, it was only a prank,” Rogers laughed, and pulled his sleeve back, to expose a handless wrist. He had a hook there, eerily similar to _Captain Bloody Hook_.

“Oh,” Belle handed him the fake hand back, to which he smirked at her look of disapproval.

Rogers waved his hook about, eyes pinned on Belle. "Now I know what your thinkin'. Pirates. Yes. I just suppose me and them have somethin' in common. Crocodiles biting off hands and everything..."

Belle gulped. A flash from her nightmare flared in her mind.

“And _this_ lovely creature is my sister, Ingrid,” Rogers went on, waving a hand over one of the women. Ingrid was just as tall as her brother, but had a bombshell beauty about her and had long hair that came to the small of her back. She was slender, but had an obvious strength to her that seemed to scream _‘Don’t fuck with me’_. 

“Hi,” Belle said softly, reaching out to shake their hands. Ingrid smirked ear to ear, and gripped Belle’s hand gingerly

“Hello yourself—You live here in this dump?”

“Yes.”

“What do you do in a puny town like this, anyway?”

“Um, well, I work at Granny’s as a waitress. But I’m about to be the library’s caretaker, so—“

Ingrid’s eyes widened. Her hand, still grasping Belle’s suddenly became vise-like. “A caretaker, huh? Like, cleaning bookshelves and shit?”

“Yes, that sort of thing,” Belle laughed awkwardly, and tugged her hand from Ingrid’s. Belle felt cold, after.

The other women introduced herself as Keith’s date; her name was Sherry, but she couldn’t look Belle in the eye and was so jittery that she looked as if she’d chugged down ten cups of coffee. Her hands visibly shook.

Rogers and Gaston were manning the grill, with Keith swaying between his beer, his friends, and groping his “girlfriend”, so Belle, Ingrid, and (partially) Sherry sat by the fire and chatted.

Ingrid and Sherry both drank beer, and managed to coax Belle out of her comfort zone enough to have one herself. Something about Roger’s sister reminded Belle of a snake, and sat a little too close for comfort. She handed Belle a bottle, her eyes dazzling in the firelight. The sun set too quickly. 

The beer tasted way to bitter for her tastes, but she sipped it down with meaning. Maybe being a little tipsy would help her get through his uncomfortable evening. As time dragged on, and the young men were finishing up some burgers, Belle felt significantly more looser once alcohol and warm food was put into her system. Her burger was undercooked, and bloodied juices dribbled down the side of her lip, smearing her chin when she raised her wrist to whip it off. It was tangy with ketchup and mustard, and someone began to laugh as another suddenly shot up to get a drink, whining about someone having snuck hot sauce into their burger—Keith, she thought. Rogers and Ingrid laughed hysterically, smacking their knees. Ingrid threw an arm around Belle’s shoulder and whispered into her ear—“I believe the pranking has begun!”

Belle was unamused, but nodded and took another bite of her food so she could avoid speaking. She chewed it slowly, and in small bites.

Rumpelstiltskin’s story suddenly became a million times more interesting in her mind. 

Belle narrowed her eyes on Rogers, who was cackling like some deranged dog with Gaston. Rogers reminded her of a pirate still, with his one earing and devil-sure smirk. Rogers… Like the Jolly Roger.

An idea began to swirl in Belle’s mind. So far, she had written that Rumpelstiltskin’s wife left her family with a pirate. Perhaps she should write more on that, like giving a scene with Rumpelstiltskin trying to save his wife from the pirate. Humming in approval of her own idea, she took a sip of her beer. 

It would do to give Rumpelstiltskin more of a braver outlook. So far the only “brave” thing about her fictional man was when he crippled himself to be a father. Everything after that put Rumpelstiltskin in a negative light. Yes, him facing a pirate would definitely speak volumes about his character…

Belle was pleased with her inner thoughts so much that she didn’t noticed how time flew by; everyone had pretty much finished eating, but Belle still had a few bites left on her plate. She finished her beer, and was tempted to get up and ask Gaston to either take her home or just leave, but—

“Belle, you look a little sleepy there.”

Gaston loomed over her, smirking like the Cheshire cat. She gave him a wobbly smile as stood up with him. His breath smelled like alchohol. 

“Wanna go for a swim?”

Belle’s face fell. 

She didn’t have anything to swim with, for one, and two, it was freezing out. 

“Wha—?“

Suddenly, Gaston was picking her up, ignoring her small cry of protest. He just laughed and before she knew it, Keith was there too, and they were walking down the dock. Belle began to kick her limbs, close to shrieking her unwillingness. 

“Gaston, NO! Put me down, now!”

“C’mon, babe, it’s only for a little—dip!”

“ _No—!!!_ ”

Belle hit the surface of the water like a trout being tossed back into the sea. She flailed and flopped, but the moment the frigid water hit her she squealed out a broken cry of shock. Instantly, her clothes became drenched, weighing her down more than she would have liked, and late-autumn water wrapped around her like a glove made of ice. Goosebumps covered the surface of her skin and her stomach muscles clenched in alarm. 

When she got her senses right in her world again, she pumped her legs and swamp to air. Breaking the surface, wet hair messy and tangled around her face, she screamed, “ _Cold!!!_ ”

Gaston and Keith laughed like a pack of hyenas; one leaned back heartily while the other slapped his leg with a loud smack. Belle really wanted to smack them both, she disliked them so much in that moment!

“This isn’t funny!” Belle hissed through clenched, shivering jaws. Her teeth clattered together, little needles of pain and ice shooting through her head and. 

“It was just a joke, Belle!” Gaston said, squatting at the edge of the dock. He reached out a hand to her, and Belle swam to him, telling herself firmly not to pursue anything romantic with this oaf. Yep, definitely not.

Teeth clattering together, she reached out to take Gaston’s hand when—

_Something grabbed her foot._

Belle could barely let out a proper scream before she was dragged back into the water, a fist wrapped around his ankle. She kicked and flailed in the sea but it was useless. Yet before her chest could begin to scream for air, however, she was breaking surface once again.

She flipped her head back, wet hair slapping the sides of her head. One long tendril of her mahogany hair ran down the side of her nose. Violently shivering, she rubbed at her eyes to wipe the water away, desperate to see what had happened.

To her surprise, she was under the docks. The bit of light from the night sky shined through the space between boards, gleaming off the water droplets on her pale skin. A gust of hot breath left her lips, but she looked around her with glistening blue eyes, fear gripping her heart.

Something unusually smooth and scaly brushed against her, and she started, gasping. 

She knew who it was.

A familiar, albeit scaly one, face surfaced from the dark waters, blinking water from his huge eyes with his inner, translucent eyelid. He let out a low growl, water cascading out of its half-open maw and between his sharp teeth.

“Well, well, well, look what the crocodile dragged in…”

Belle froze up, shocked to see him here, to see him anywhere other than the library. A million questions ran through her mind like flocks of birds, too many to count. She only let her insides shiver in the cold of the water, her heavy clothes, but stared at the beast before her. He pressed the tip of his snout to her neck, and let out a deep chuckle. Against her skin, he crooned, “What did I tell you, scrumptious?”

“You are not suppose to be here,” she hissed, hugging herself while kicking her legs to stay afloat. Though he was not exactly a welcome sight to see, he was far more intesting than Gaston or his “friends”, so she let herself lean against him. He circled her, hands ghosting against her waist. He was as cold as the water.

“Am I? Hard to ignore, when I can hear you squealing like a wee bairn from miles away. You do make so much noise.”

His hands cupped her breasts.

Ready to scream out, a webbed, clawed hand clasped her mouth before she could make a sound. With the crown of his head pressed against her neck, his snout jutted out over her clavicle and shoulder, he whispered, “Shh, they may hear us!”

Murmuring against his hand, she felt them begin to slowly swim closer to shore. She heard her companions begin to make a big commotion, calling her name. Unable to cry out that she was fine, she clutched against herself and against the cold, letting this crocodile monster guide her away, hidden under the docks. The partygoers began to grow louder and more frantic around the end of the dock; Belle wondered if they would jump in after her. They shouted her name.

“Why are you here? _How_ are you here?” Belle whispered huskily as they reached the other end of the dock, right where shore began to form. Her monster just hummed, and gave her breasts a small squeeze before speaking.

“Just swimming about… Can’t have my little scrumptious little lass cringing from my _stink_ , can I?”

Belle sniffed, whipping her dripping nose. She still shivered in his arms, and though he was cold and hard and smooth, she could not draw warmth from him. Why he held her so tight, she didn’t know—

Unless, of course, he was the one drawing warmth from _her_.

“Your blockheaded lover up there is a real charmer,” he comments, running his hands over her body in a lethargic way. “Tossing you in the water like that… crocodile infested water, that is.”

“Maine doesn’t have crocodiles.”

“It has one now.”

Teeth clicking together, she felt with anxious concern as the crocodile’s long tail wrapped around her legs, gently, with slow movement as if not to comfort her, but was too sleepy to go any faster. In fact, she notes as the fear of being hurt slowly subsides, she could probably slip out of his hold and swim away. 

Her monster tucked his head over her own. “Hmmmm, always have loved a shivering female. Well, it’s usually in the throes of passion, but this will do.” Gently, the crocodile let her go and nudged her to exit the docks. “Off to your twu luv, scrumptious. Be careful who you trust among strangers.”

“He’s not my true love, and you’re more strange than Captain Hook up there… Tick-Tock.”

The crocodile tilted its head and scrunched its eyes up. 

“It’s a movie,” said she.

“Hm. Thought it had to do with that silly story of yours.”

“No, that’s—“

Suddenly. She was hit with the most wondrous idea. An idea she hadn’t dared to imagine yet.

_What if Rumpelstiltskin wasn’t just…. Rumpelstiltskin?_

“Rumple,” she whispered, swimming back to the crocodile who was slowly receding back into the water. “ _That’s it!_ ”

“What the fuck is a rumple?”

“ _You’re_ Rumple!”

The crocodile stared at her as if she’d gone mad. Maybe she had. She certainly suddenly felt way too happy for a women half-frozen in the company of a monster.

“What if the pirate that took away Rumpelstiltskin’s wife was a young Captain Hook? And when Rumple becomes the all-powerful sorcerer, he cuts one of Hook’s hands off, making him _Hook_.” She gasped again, invigorated by the thoughts swirling through her head, and reached out to place her hands on either side of the crocodile’s snout. “What if Rumple becomes _the crocodile_ when he starts using magic?”

Her crocodile squirmed, and swam away from her with a suspicious glower in his eyes. Belle had forgotten his hostile behavior the last time they were together, and her own past memories. But this idea was beginning to unravel in her mind so much so that it blinded reason and sanity all together. 

_“Belle!”_

Both girl and crocodile jerked at the scream from Gaston, and flinched when they heard a loud splash in the water. Her crocodile—Rumple, was what she would call him—grimaced and backed away. Sinking into the water, he hissed angrily, “Keep your little head on your shoulders, scrumptious, and don't forget your food offering next week!”


	7. Tentative Relations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Belle's starting the moving process to the library's flat, but, of course, makes time to feed her library monster. And get some more writing advice.

“The couch can go here,” she gingerly instructed the grunting men, who were currently marching up the thin, rickety flight of stairs carrying her heavy furniture. The sheriff was among her helpful movers, as was Gaston, Rogers, and David. Gaston was the only one among them that was shirtless, and flexed his muscles every time she passed by.

Roger’s sister Ingrid was here, too, but the other girl held little interest in Belle’s move, and chose to poke around the library part. Ingrid had asked Belle if she would be cleaning everything, and why hadn’t anyone else done so before. A reply was fast in her mouth, but she hesitated when Ingrid ran a finger across a high shelf, and had a find coating of thick gray dust when the other reeled her hand back. It was something to dwell on later.

Today was Sunday evening, two days since the failed beach party. That night ended with both Belle and Gaston crawling out of the frigid waters like a pair of wet cats, shivering and spiting water. Her “date” had been everything except kind toward her that night, and howled on the next day about how Belle had been a cruel tease to have dragged him in the water after her, just to spite him. 

As if she would do that.

But Gaston was also among the first to volunteer when she went to ask Sheriff Humbert for moving advice. Of course, Humbert immediately offered to help when she asked, but Gaston was quick to follow after, along with his new mate Rogers. David volunteered next as well, which was unsurprising given his gallant nature. They all agreed to begin moving some of Belle’s things into her new flat Sunday, because Belle needed Saturday to start making those calls for her change of address and renting a moving truck. It wouldn’t be an immediate change, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t begin the moving process.

So now she sound herself directing her helpful friends move some of her furniture and a few boxes to the flat. She tried to help as much as she could, but the men insisted they take over, and Ingrid was plain in her interest in talking to Belle. She didn’t mind chatting with the other women, pleased to have met a potential friend, but there was something about Ingrid that was… _off_. She didn’t know how to describe it, but the feeling was there nonetheless. 

Belle managed to dodge many of Ingrid’s unusual questions by shadowing the men helping her move.

It was almost 4:00 p.m., and Belle was getting a little anxious to get the men and Ingrid out before the sunset. There couldn’t be a reason for the crocodile monster— _Rumple_ —to come out tonight, since he seemed to know she only came on weeknights. She also knew he wouldn’t dare to venture out of whatever hellhole he came from if someone besides herself was present, but it unnerved her to think of her unusual acquaintance spying on her and her friends. Tomorrow she would feed Rumple, to make sure his hunger was sated. Wild animals didn’t typically attack after eating a large meal.

Once a single load from the moving truck had been transferred from her old flat to her new flat, Belle rewarded her helpers with must-deserved mugs of hot coco with mini marshmallows and teacakes. 

David left first, needing to return home to his wife before nightfall. Belle told him to give M.M. her love, and he tipped his head in agreement before leaving. Rogers and his sister left next, with Humbert and Gaston tagging behind not too far after. Gaston had made several hints toward her throughout the day that she should come to another party with him sometime, some comments suggesting a more lecherous nature.

Belle politely declined.

“Alone at last,” she sighed as she leaned against the doorframe of the library, just after the last of her helpers left. It felt so new and so wild to be moving; she had been at her current flat since she graduated high school, having saved enough money babysitting, pet sitting, and tutoring youngsters throughout her school years. A lot of her feathers were ruffled during that time. Now, however, it felt like an adventure. 

With a side of actual danger. _Because a literal monster was going to be living in the same building as she_.

The library’s lights were all on, and it was only her now, so she decided to explore a bit.

Come to think of it, she had never explored the library during the day, with no one around besides her lonesome. She was curious, too, because once she began her caretaking job she had a lot to do.

Dust covered a lot of the unused shelves, and the tables were dirty with grime. The floor was no better, if not worse, and was in need of a good sweeping and an even better mop job. Her flat was in a similar state. Saturday, when she came to pick up the key from Mr. Cleary, she had her first glimpse at her intended new home. No one had entered in years, clearly evident by how hard it was to open the flat’s door, and the thick layer of dust and mustiness that greeted her. It was empty and small, but had the necessary of any normal apartment. It had one bedroom, a kitchenette, a connected dining and living room, and a unique bathroom. There was a stand-in shower, and a very deep bathtub that was in desperate need for a nice wash.

Belle spent four hours Saturday evening cleaning, leaving the windows open to air it out once she left to return to her current home. Today, she spent some more time cleaning, and had the boys help bring some of her things over. Now she was alone, and she wasn’t sure what to do now. 

Storybrooke library had one main room, a large spacious section with several shelves filled with books of various subjects, and areas designated to reading, studying, and lounging. There was a small set of spiral stairs near the Moon Room that led to a small second floor, of which Belle pondered over for years as of why the second floor, aka the “Small Room” was so _small_. Now she knew it was because of the caretaker’s flat.

Upstairs was a room not accessible for children under sixteen, and for good reason. Books of a different kind of farce were housed up here behind locked cabinets. They ranged from books formerly banned, rare tomes, and old volumes from long ago. She had gone into that room for the first time when she was ten, having recently moved from Australia. Mr. Cleary was at the ready to shoo her out, but he saw her true love for books, and through long talks over books more appropriate for her age. He relented, and finally granted her access to the Small Room on her fourteenth birthday.

Now, Belle had access to the entire library, at any time or day in a week. 

The first thing she did once she realized the poor state of the library was go to the utility closet in the back. It was clear the “caretaker” before her did not do his job, and she was determined to do it the right way.

The closet was very tiny, with a dangling light-bulb that swung back and forth when she tugged it on. There was an old mop standing in the corner, a rusty bucket, untouched cleaning agents, and old nuts and bolts littering throughout. A bulky set of shelves was set to the side covered in dust and cobwebs, and a wooden trapdoor in the very back.

Curious, she tiptoed in and bent down to examine the trapdoor. There was a fat handle on the top, beckoning her to pull it open and peak inside like a beacon. She was naturally a curious person, and she did not hesitate long to open it. What was inside? Maybe it was nothing, or it was built not to open. 

Maybe it was how Rumple came into the library. Henry had mentioned something about tunnels under the building.

She reached out and grasped the handle. Her breath hitched as she pulled at it, and found the door could open, albeit with a considerable amount of strength. 

The first thing she saw was dirt. Then the crawlspace.

It was impossibly dark down there, but the square of light from the open trapdoor spotlighted a little area below, surrounded by blackness from all sides. Smells of sewer and dank air gusted up, and the low moan of a distant roar of wind. 

Claw marks were on the sandy floor, and the outline of something long and tail-like that disappeared into the unseeable black crawlspace. 

She sniffed, smelled something akin to a sewer, and shut the trapdoor when it became too heavy to keep holding up. The door landed with a loud bang, causing her to yelp in surprise and leap backwards as a large cloud of dust and sand exploded into her face. She hit the light bulb on her way to stand up, causing lively shadows to dance around wildly.

It made her notice the claw marks on the floor.

And the blood stains.

~.~.~.~

Belle slept at her old flat Sunday night, and lingered at home Monday morning until she had to go to work at Granny’s later that afternoon. During this time she indulged in her creative writing streak. For most of the morning she wrote out details of the recent mental development in her novel, jotting down main points of the storyline. 

She wrote of Rumpelstiltskin’s eventual transformation between meek spinner to impish sorcerer, the connections between him and his faceless wife, and the overly-handsome pirate who sweeps her away. Rumpelstiltskin, heartbroken, goes on to care for his one and only son in the dawn on an oncoming war. He gains power, seeks his revenge on his wife and her young lover. In doing so he kills his wife, and cuts off one of the pirate’s hand. 

This have her a better image of Rumpelstiltskin in her head. She pictured him as a small, older gentleman of wiry strength, struggling with a bad limp and walking stick. She pictured kind, expressive brown eyes.

However, her mental image of him changed with the story’s recent change in course. As a sorcerer, Rumpelstiltskin would have more grotesque features—like a crocodile.

Sniffing pridefully, she organized her papers and packed them away in her typewriter case. If Rumple was in good humor, perhaps he could give his own insight. After all, it was clear at this point that Rumple was her new muse, for good or for bad.

All that mattered was making sure he was in line. She had not forgotten the blood she found in the closet, or the way he pinned her to the floor that horrid night, and touched her in a most… _inappropriate_ way. Perhaps it hadn’t been completely malicious on his part. Maybe, as a reptile’s biological instinct, he was seeking warmth from her. That blanket would do zip for him without a heat source.  
Secondly, the thought of him made her knees go week, and her muscles tensed and her heart sped up with a fight-or-flight response. It nagged in the back of her mind, and immediately she thought of that time when she was six.

Yet as quickly as the thought came, it vanished with a mental image of her childhood dog.

Belle shook her head and got ready for work. 

~.~.~.~

“Hello, Mr. Crocodile,” Belle called out into the library that night, shuffling into the library with her things. “I’m back!” Loaded down, she walked with bit of a waddle in her step as she made her way inside, and overall glad the librarians had left her lamp on at her desk. It was still very dark, but not enough to make her blind and helpless. She locked the library doors behind her, relishing in her typical routine. Yes, it would not be too long until she fell back into a nice pattern again. 

It was very quiet, but she did not flinch this time when she heard the loud dragging of a long, fat tail against the floors, or the light scrape of webbed claws. Had he been waiting for her?

With a mental reminder to be cautious, for Rumple was not to be trusted, muse or no, and she hadn’t forgiven the crocodile for that night he groped her or stuck his hand inside her undergarments. Now, however, she had an inkling the groping had less to do with something lecherous, but more of a heat-seeking mechanism. 

She gently placed her things down onto the desk, the sound of her things clicking and ruffling together as she settled them. With wary eyes, she watched the crocodile’s shape morph from the shadows, and slink into her little bubble of light. He was hunched over, eyes pinned on her like the predator he was, and looked and smelled none the cleaner since that night under the docks. 

“Why scrumptious,” said the crocodile obliquely, “how kind of you to grace me with your… delightful presence. You, uh, got something for little ole me in that big bag of yours—?” 

“I brought you food.”

“Gimme,” he said greedily, thrusting is open hands out like a shameless beggar.

“Hold on a moment,” she said, feeling lightheaded when a small burst of amusement bloomed in her chest. “I’ve brought my dinner, too, so we can eat together.”

Rumple snorted at that, but grabbed a chair from the table and spun it around anyway, and plopped down like an excited little boy at his birthday dinner. Hugging the back of the chair to his chest, he rasped, “You made a lot of noise yesterday.”

“You heard us?”

“Do birds fly?”

Shaking her head, she skirted the side of the table he sat at and unpacked the food containers. For him, she brought three whole smoked salmons, and carefully unwrapped them from their paper bags. Wordlessly, they were placed before him on a paper place, stacked on top of each other. For herself, Belle made herself breaded fish sticks with honey mustard. 

She set up the table with terseness and rigidness, trying to keep her eyes on the task at hand. Her curious company smelled as bad as he had the first time they met, but with him so close in the light, she saw details about him she had missed before.

There were ringed scars around the middle of his snout, and a smaller yet wider scare at the side of his nose. Each canine, or fourth tooth, jutted outward and dug into his maxilla in shallow indentations like any mature crocodile’s features. She could see all of his teeth even with his mouth closed, and this spurred her to wonder how he could speak coherently. Rumple also had a tongue, unlike crocodiles, and facial expressions and _hair_ , which was more akin to a human being than an animal. Blinking herself back to her senses, she tore her eyes from him and set their dinner up. Hopefully, after a good meal, he would be nicer.

The moment she gave him his food, the crocodile nearly bit her in his haste to eat. He quirked his head 90 degrees and furiously wolfed up the fish like a starved rabid man. Fish innards splattered his scaly snout in chunks, pale flecks of blood smearing across his span of sharp teeth. With loud, animalistic grunts, he practically mauled the table as he chomped the meat up, eyes clamped shut. Frothy tears bubbled at the corners of his eyes.

Belle, disturbed and mildly disgusted, stared at him with wide sleep-deprived eyes. 

Her staring did not go unnoticed. Rumple, when it became apparent she was bothered, slowed down until he froze. His eyes shifted upward to her, with his head laid on the table with the tail of a fish hanging out of his mouth, impaled between his teeth. 

The corners of his mouth turned downward, and he opened his mouth enough for the mutilated fish to fall back onto the table, landing partially on the plate. With a hiss, his watery reptilian eyes met hers, and she gulped in worry. Gingerly, she offered her fork and knife, to which he snatched from her hands. He griped each utensil in either fist.

Rumple then, with a young child’s dexterity, attempted to cut the fish properly, and with much difficulty got a chunk of raw fish onto the fork. 

Crocodiles did not have cheeks. As a biological rule, Rumple did not have cheeks either. So it was unsurprising when he struggled with feeding himself by a fork.

Eventually Belle had enough pity for him, and let out a light cough. Rumple’s eyes, filled with uncertainty, watched as she picked up her food with her hands, and delicately nibbled off her own fish that way.

He got the drift, and did so as well.

~.~.~.~

 

Naturally, Rumple did not take as long to eat as she did. When the oddly-quiet crocodile finished his meal, he got up and pushed his trash toward her rather rudely, and spun around on his heel to leave.

“-ait!” Belle mumbled through a mouthful of food, gulping it down pre-chewed. It scratched the back of her throat, and she barely processed the taste, but she ignored it. “I need you!”

He gave her a weird look over his shoulder.

“I need your help, Rumple,” she explained, whipping her fingers on a napkin. “I’d like for you to go over my recent notes.”

His eyes flashed in the light, scrunching up his brows as if confused. He then snapped his fingers, and opened his maw half way in a sign of recognition. “Ah. Rumple. Curious name.”

“If you have a real name, then by all means tell me now or forever hold your peace, because as of that night under the docks you’re officially Rumple.”

Sneering, he returned to her by the table, but kept a reasonable distance with a shifty look in his eye. “Hand them over, then.”

She did so without a word. 

He returned to his chair with an obnoxious grumble, but went silent as his eyes shifted over each word. It always unnerved her when people went over her word. Once upon a time, she was so sensitive to other’s criticisms that she felt offended when someone tried correcting her work. But with her beastly companion, she felt eager—not for him to finish reading and be done with it, but to hear his opinion.

Since she met him Rumple was nothing if not inspiring. 

“Stories are about change,” he said finally, slapping her papers back down onto the tabletop. “You have that transition. Bravo. Great fuckin’ job, dearie.”

She blinked in confusion. “I beg your pardon?”

“What?”

“What else?”

“What more do you want me to say?” he asked, eyes scrunching together with clear ire. 

“Well, your thoughts, for one,” she said, feeling a burst of offense at his attitude toward her story. “You gave me very good advice before. I’d like you to do it again.”

He spread his hands out. “I just don’t see the point.”

“What point!?”

The crocodile let out a dinosaur-worthy hiss, kicking his great big head back in a menacing giggle. “And you call yourself a writer!” Before she could have a change to unleash her anger, Rumple stood up and spread his arms out like a grand magician, arresting her attention and quelling her ire. 

“What _is_ a story, hm? It’s change. It’s a message to give to your readers. It’s the internal transformation of your protagonist from point A to point B. Take Pip from _Great Expectations_ , for example. He goes from the bottom to the top, because _why?_ Because he was attacked by a convict, and some crazy old hag asked him to play with her adopted daughter. He gets an anonymous benefactor—who’s who? The convict! And to add to this note, the story doesn’t even end with a clear positive ending for Estella and Pip. They could’ve gotten married—or just became friends. Who knows? It leaves the reader with something to think about. I get nothing from this little spiel of yours.”

“It’s an account on Rumpelstiltskin, the German fairytale about a deal-maker who was cheated out of his own deal!”

“Okay, I get that!” whined Rumple. “But what’s the point? What lesson or impression are you trying to give your readers?”

“It’s sympathy! Redemption!”

“Why? What’s so great about Rumpelstiltskin?”

“I’ve always felt sorry for him!”

“Then make your readers feel the same!”

“I—“

Belle paused. She processed his words, and considered his reasoning. The purpose she had for writing about her spinner was a redemption for his infamous reputation in the fairytale department. Since she was small, she had wondered why Rumpelstiltskin should be the villain, when he had done everything the miller’s daughter asked of him. Instead she cheated Rumpelstiltskin by denying him the child he’d wanted, the child of the same king who only married her for her supposed ability to spin straw into gold. Did the miller’s daughter think, even for a moment, that if she were to get on Rumpelstiltskin’s bad side that, the greedy king might discover her lack of magical talent? The king was so selfish that he had sworn to kill her if she failed to spin him gold. Rumpelstiltskin spun the gold for her, but for a reasonable price—a baby, though. Why would he want a baby? Before, he’d only asked for her jewelry. What need did Rumpelstiltskin had for a baby?

Belle liked to think that it was because he was lonely. Maybe Rumpelstiltskin wanted a baby of his own.

Yet, with her current story, it was spiraling out of control. 

 

When she lifted her eyes up to his, he seemed to have read her mind and exclaimed, “ _Yes!_ ” as he snapped his claws, pointing one finger at her. “There! That’s my point! Stop running in circles and get to the point.”

“God, you’re right,” she breathed, the tension leaving her body and the gravity of it all forcing her to drop into her chair. “Now I feel stupid for adding the whole Peter Pan thing.”

“If you still want to add the Peter Pan aspects, then you have to consider all of it. Are you aware of the origins of Peter Pan?”

She blinked owlishly. “Not by much. I know the Disney adaptation was based off of a book, though.”

Rumple returned to his seat as well, and steepled his hands together. “Peter Pan, in his beginning, was not good. He was rather shady, actually. Thank Disney for making it kosher for children.”

“Oh.”

“Yes. Now think. Rumpelstiltskin, in his true form in the old stories, wants a baby. Peter Pan is eternally a child who kidnapped boys for his crew. There’re similar elements between them. As for Captain Hook here,” he motioned toward her stack of papers, “I like the moment of revenge for your hero. But don’t make Rumpelstiltskin look like me—I know I’m gorgeous, scrumptious, but keep Rumpelstiltskin to his origins, as a sorcerer. Maybe the skin of a crocodile—make him repulsive.” 

“I was, but in a metaphorical sen—“

“Ah!” He waggled a finger in her face. “No-no-no! Don’t let your ovaries control you. Make him physically hideous, give an impression of why people may hate him besides his deeds. Make him downright rotten in the end. Give reason for that, too. Revenge on Hook isn’t enough.”

“Like—?”

“Kill the son.”

“WHAT!?”

“Kill the son,” repeated the crocodile, his voice low and serious. “Why does Rumpelstiltskin ask for the miller’s daughter’s firstborn? This is the main point, isn’t it? He wants a baby, because his own baby was lost. Yes, this is an excellent theme! Loss of innocence; children.”

She was silent for a while. Leaning back in her chair, she stared hard at the papers scattered around the table with the litter from their awkwardly shared supper. A heavy, shaky sigh left her as her thoughts scrambled and formed in her head. 

“You sure know a lot about stories,” she said, finally looking up to meet his eyes.

Rumple shrugged.

“Do you read a lot?”

“When I can,” he said indifferently, standing up and kicking his chair to the side in a loud scrape against the floor.

“How do you know how to read?”

“I was taught,” he said, as if the question was strange. He looked off into the distance somewhere over her head, his eyes blank. Mute, he then shook his head as if shaking off some unwanted thought. “Just be quiet, scrumptious, when you and your eejit brigade come storming through the place.”

“It’s Belle, you know.”

“Whatever, scrumptious.”


	8. Panic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hmm, so what does Avi do after a dry spell in her writing...?
> 
> Write about sex and violence, of course! 
> 
>  
> 
> (P.S.... Croc!rumple is nasty.)
> 
> (P.S.S. Please read A/N at the end!)

The mayoress marched down the hallway with her head high, eyes well hidden with makeup and eyeliner. Her heels clicked across the smooth concrete floors, completely glorious in her suit and expensive wear. Flipping hair over her shoulder, she spat out, “Has my mother responded, Sidney?”

Behind her, a blubbering Mr. Glass struggled to keep up with her fast pace as he desperately tried to get a proper grip on the pile of paperwork in his arms. “Um—I uh—she hasn’t, ma’am.”

“Huh. Typical. The better she gets those two idiots out of my town the better, and I don’t want to see either of them by Thanksgiving, understand?” The mayoress sighed tiredly as they reached one of the ginormous tank exhibits, the lights reflecting off and across her in watery, moving blue shapes. “They’ve been here long enough to know if it’s even here or not. It’s time for them to go already.”

“Yeah, keep saying that,” Rumple groused lowly, spying on the two from way above. Crawling along the pipes in the ceiling, in the vents, he could travel just about anywhere in the aquarium without so much as a sound. Not that anyone was paying much attention up above, anyhow. He chuckled ruefully. 

“Well, I mean—“ Mr. Glass stammered, “You’re completely right, Regina.”

“I am, aren’t I?” She watched a school of fish swim idly by, her eyes twinkling with authority and merit. “How well can a monster that’s at least a quarter of a ton hide from mother’s henchmen?”

“Y-Yes, I couldn’t agree more.”

“Oh well,” Regina said, wiping her finger down the glass, as if to check for its cleanliness. “I couldn’t be in the library as that idiot suggested. That girl—Margie? Verna? Whatever her name is, she’s simple as a mouse. She would run _screaming_ if the blasted thing so much as growled at her. It’s not here, and I can’t understand why Mother won’t agree!”

“I agree with you.”

Regina sighed, turning around to leave the large fish tank. “Just to make sure, have one of Mother’s pets lurk around Margie for awhile. Henry said that he heard his teacher say that the girl was going to be the library’s caretaker.”

“I’ll make the call now,” Sidney said, pulling out his phone in the speed of light, still struggling with his load.

Rumple hissed. This would be troublesome. 

Lifting himself up, he carefully waddled over the wood bored and pipes that made up the ceiling, always making sure he set his weight on sturdy parts. 

Slowly, he made his way to a broken vent and crawled inside, his belly dragging as he pulled himself through. It was a tight fit, and with his recent meals he was gaining a little. Belle fed him quiet a bit, and it was too cold to burn the calories off faster than he could consume them.

The crocodile sighed and pulled himself through the dark tunnels. He’d been here before, he’ll do it again. It was the same story as usual—he’d come, he’d listen, he’d go somewhere else—end of story. Nothing exciting, unless it involved him.

Which now it did involve him, more than ever.

“Shit,” he cussed viciously, sliding down a slippery, greasy tunnel that had him flying back to the sewer tunnels. Landing with a thumb, quite awkwardly and without grace, he rolled until he was on all fours. 

The Mills bitch was his one last strand that tied him to his old life. In the past Rumple had seriously considered killing her, but since then has decided not to. It would draw attention, and not in a good way. If one of _them_ caught the tiniest clue of his whereabouts, they’d come for his head. Maybe both of them.

Rumple waddled into a certain tunnel; it led him further into town, where Town Hall was.

However he played his cards, he would have to be careful. Now, though, there was another theme to worry about. _Bloody Belle_. Groaning in frustration, the croc broke into a sprint, galloping the best he could. He had eaten too much—she’d fed him too much. Yet again he would have to throw it all up again.

Panting, he reached his destination. With much effort, he crawled up the dirt slope and a fork, where he could smell the foul stench of the sewers, and the other, he knew, led to Town Hall. Rumple climbed into the pipe he wanted.

Slowly but steadily, the croc managed to slither himself through the pipe, claws grappling for the small stairs that led him upward, until the tip of his snout made contact with the manhole. Pressing, he pushed it off and heaved himself out, finding himself in the old abandoned utility room of Town Hall.

Rumple knew this building like the back of his hand. The corners of his mouth smirking upward, he put the manhole’s cover back in place and went to the main office.

Careful not to move too much around, he scanned through the papers on the desk. _Regina has to have something here,_ Rumple groused inwardly, _if she can afford to let her dear mummy’s henchmen in her own town, then she has to have some paperwork easily accessible…_ After all, he knew Regina well, nearly as well as he knew Town Hall.

He let out a satisfied grunt as he spied a thick letter, titled **M.A.G.I.C.**. _There you are, little bastard._ he snarled, plucking the sheet up. With a great sigh, he dropped himself down into the fancy chair and leaned back.

 _01010100 01101000 01100101 00100000 01101100 01101111 01100011 01100001 01110100 01101001 01101111 01101110 00100000 01101111 01100110 00100000 01110100 01101000 01100101 00100000 01100001 01110010 01101101 01100001 01100011 01101000 01100100 00100000 01101000 01100001 01110011 00100000 01100010 01100101 01100101 01101110 00100000 01100100 01100101 01110100 01100101 01100011 01110100 01100101 01100100 00100000 01101001 01101110 00100000 01010011 01110100 01101111 01110010 01111001 01100010 01110010 01101111 01101111 01101011 01100101 00101100 00100000 01001101 01100001 01101001 01101110 01100101 00101110 00100000 01001101 00101110 01000001 00101110 01000111 00101110 01001001 00101110 01000011 00101110 00100000 01101101 01110101 01110011 01110100 00100000 01110100 01100001 01101011 01100101 00100000 01101001 01101101 01101101 01100101 01100100 01101001 01100001 01110100 01100101 00100000 01100001 01100011 01110100 01101001 01101111 01101110 00101110 00100000 00100000_

Rumple had always liked numbers. But he didn’t like binary code. Sniffing in distaste, the croc rummaged around in Regina’s desk until he found her laptop. The mayor should be with her son by now, giving him a plethora of time to decode the paper. Granted, it would take some time to tap out each number.

His mind shifted back to another time where he tapped out on a keyboard. It was on Belle’s typewriter.

Rumple remembered the feel of the cool metal of the contraption, and the pretty pastel blue it was. Belle took care of it, for the keys had been easy to work with and the ink fresh. With her as the library’s caretaker, things would be in better shape. Like, no more of those idiot “librarians” that fucked around after nightfall. To his pleasure, Belle was so buddy-buddy with the old man that she could have an all access VIP pass, eliminating the two obnoxious lovers.

Though he had been mad in the beginning of that little transaction. Before Belle, the two idiot librarians were so loud that he could make as much sound as he liked in the dark without either of them knowing. Yet with Belle... it was too quiet for him to even fart. 

Much less jerk off

Which he had done. 

A couple of times.

Groaning, he dropped a hand to his belly. It wouldn’t be good to jizz in the mayor’s office—leaving smell and dirt vs. leaving cum were two very different things. 

“Or I can just clean it up,” he mused to himself cheekily, and instantly dropped a claw to his slit. A few rubs, and few tugs, and his throbbing, ever-hard cock sprung out against his belly. Sighing, he stroked his ashen length up and down, grabbing himself like he would a staff. Using his free hand he continued to tap out the binary numbers into the translator.

His fantasy took the form of Belle. She kneeled on the floor before him, her shirt torn in half, by him, so he could gaze upon her small yet perky bosoms. With flushed cheeks and glistening lips, Belle dragged her hands up and down his thighs until she grasped him. Huffing, he tugged himself harder, imagining the beauty bending her head down and taking him in her mouth—whole. Pinching his cock’s pointy mushroomed head, he saw and felt her within his mind's eye swallow him down her throat, moaning around his size. Her mouth would be so hot and wet, drooling around his cock like a wanton bitch, whispering how much she wanted him inside her against his quivering belly. _'I want you so bad, Rumple. I'm so fucking wet for you... Please, baby, fuck me over the desk. I need you so bad...'_

Instantly, he came with soft groan, shooting his load onto himself. On his torso, he was able to wipe the mess up with his hand, lapping it off his palm. 

Finally, he was done typing—

A loud scream tore him away from the computer. Jerking his head up, he saw two shaking forms of the security guards, hands flying to their belts. He didn't know either of them.

Letting instinct take over, he let out a loud roar and charged, shoving the desk out of the way as he flung himself at the two. He pushed one out of the way, barely processing him running down the hall, as the other man pulled his gun out, pointing it at him. Growling, the beast lunged at him and chomped down on the man’s wrist. An onrush of blood splattered into his mouth as the man howled in excruciating pain. The gun went off, he realized dully, but he twisted his head and tugged backwards, ripping the arm out of the shoulder socket. 

With a scream, the man dropped, defenseless as the monster went at his throat and jaw. No more throat, no more life.

“AHH!” Yelled another male in horror, enforcing him to leap off. Blood crazed and desperate to get out, he barreled his way at the other. He could not afford to let people know about him. No one. These people had to die.

Maw open, he jumped the other, ripping and tearing, _ripping and tearing, **ripping and tearing.**_

Bloody, shaking, and half-mad, he pulled away from the two men—dead, he knew—before anyone else had a change to arrive. Yet before leaving he galloped back into the office, grabbed the letter, and shoved it into his mouth. Snarling like a rabid animal, he ran back the way he came. _FUCK, FUCK, FUCK, FUCK, FUCK!_ He was too busy panicking to be aware of the tranquilizer darts shooting after him.

 

~.~.~.~.~

Belle had finally moved in.

It had taken a considerable amount of time and help, but when the week was out all of her things were above the library. Her new home. Sighing, she picked up the mop and continued to clean.

Now that she was caretaker here, she had to start doing her part. She had been shocked to find the library absolutely filthy. As she cleaned it, though, she understood its cleanliness state even more. 

It was the weekend, but she had not seen hair nor hide of Rumple in a few days. Concerned and worried, since she had thought their talk last time they met went (somewhat) well, Belle could do nothing but wait with his desired newspaper on standby. All the lights were on now, and she hadn't seen him come out before with the lights on. It was something to dwell on later.

Suddenly, there was a thump. 

It was a strange sound from across the room, prompting Belle to tentatively come closer to the source. It seemed to come from the-

She screamed in surprise as Rumple barged through the utility closet.

He was loud, forceful, and tripped over his own webbed feet as he stumbled into the library. Wheezing, the croc nearly crashed into a nearby bookshelf.

“Rumple!” She cried, dropping the mop as the great creature gracelessly regained his balance. He staggered, she saw, and whirled around clumsily to face her. His eyes were wide, and a thick rope of—blood, dripped from the front of his snout and chin, staining his teeth red.

“Scrumptious,” he stated lowly, staring in her general direction, yet not quite at _her_.

She rushed to his side, still wary of getting too close. “God, what happened to you?” There was a fresh, circular wound on his neck around the width of her thumb, mixed with foul fluids and mud smearing the front of his olive-gray torso. With his mouth parted, she could see along his gums a small soppy hole were a tooth was missing, and another which was loose, hanging on by a few roots. Two narrow little cuts stood out on the tip of his snout, one on his maxilla, the other on the mandible. He looked rough and beaten.

“I believe,” he groaned ruefully, “you’d taken to calling me ‘Rumple’. But I’m flattered. Ladies often call me that in bed.”

Blushing a million shades of red, she angrily swatted in his direction. She then placed an uncertain hand on his shoulder and pushed him to her apartment.

To say in the least, Belle was terrified. For him. For herself. For whatever had done this to him. _Oh please,_ she prayed to herself, _don’t let him have killed anybody._ There was no telling what had really happened to him unless he told her, but she was not about to let him bleed out here in the library. Besides, where would she put the body? In the dumpster? Deeply disturbed by the thought, she urged him on.

“Where are you taking me?” Rumple asked deliriously, stumbling as he—to her slight surprise—complied to her wishes. Due to this, she was bewildered even more by his strange behavior—stranger than normal, that is. Before she could question him further, he placed a wobbly, greedy hand on her breast. She slapped him away. 

“Touch me again and I’ll—“ He put his hand to her buttock. Hissing, she said “I’m not letting you drip blood onto my clean floor. And one of your teeth is about to pop out—did you know Henry’s collecting them like a godforsaken hobby? What if anyone else found them? Like an adult—a scientist? That's why you threatened to eat him, isn't it!?” 

Rumple, ignoring her last question entirely, drunkenly squeezed her and said, “Aw, are we going to play Crocodile Dentist?”

Sighing, he purposefully ignored the question and pushed the great oaf upstairs. He swayed, leaning too much of his weight on her all the way up. It felt like a hundred years had gone by the time they reached the top. Rumple barely looked around before saying, “Got any scotch?”

Blowing out a loud gust of air, she dismissed that bit and pushed him into her bathroom. Dimly, he leaned against the wall. The wound was bleeding more than before. “Is—is this a bullet hole?”

“Hmm,” he shrugged, but winced doing so.

“Stay here,” she ordered timidly, slipping out of the room.

Even in the kitchen, Belle barely had time to gather her thoughts. Something had happened to Rumple—something that wasn’t good, most likely. It frightened her to the core, and remembering the way his half-open maw looked with blood running down his fangs scared the crap out of her.

She tried to still her hands from shaking, but she could do little to help. Quickly, she grabbed a pair of rubber cleaning gloves and—

 _Boom!_ , went her bathroom. Rose, who had been in her cat tree, flung herself off and made a mad dash under the couch. Something heavy had taken a mighty fall, and the sound was loud enough that it literally _shook_ her tiny new home, and Belle dropped the gloves in fright.

Rapidly regaining her courage, she grabbed her gloves and plucked a wade of paper towels before running back into her bathroom.

“Rumple!?”

He had collapsed. Laying out on his belly across the floor, he almost seemed no different than a normal crocodile basking on land. Given his limbs and his hair, though, he was far from being normal. Dropping her things, she kneeled down and put her hands on his shoulders, shaking. “Rumple, get up! Get up!”

He didn’t move a muscle.

Terrified, she attempted to role him over, when, in the nick of time, she saw the reason of his—predicament.

There were two darts sticking out of him. One was in his side, the other in his back. Both had bright red ends and a thick metal base.

“Jesus,” she swore, and carefully pinched one and pulled. Out popped a thin needle attached to the small thing. She pulled the second one out and tossed it across the bathroom.

She would have to roll him over to get to the wound. Yet he was heavy, and his skin was slippery from wetness. Wincing, she pulled the gloves on and put herself beside him. She took a deep breath and tucked her hands under him, one under his arm, the other at his belly. Once she tried to push, she slipped, and fell against the wall on her bum. Wincing, she tried again, and put her feet against the wall for stability.

With a huge heave that nearly broke a broke, Belle attempted to turn him. Rumple was very heavy, and it took multiple tries and a pulled muscle to get him on his back.

“Gah!” Belle cried, panting like she had done some major cardio.

On his back, Rumple seemed to be of no danger. His underbelly, she had noticed several times, was a much softer texture than the rest of him, especially under his chin and neck. Putting a hand on his gullet, she found he was actually supple.

The wound was her priority, though. Belle reached over the croc and tugged the cabinet under her sink open. There, she took a bottle of peroxide and a pair of tweezers.

First of all, Belle was no medic. She had no idea if—if Rumple had a bullet in him—she should remove it or not. There was no way of truly knowing what to do with him, and calling the paramedics were out of the question. The wound wasn’t even bleeding as badly as she thought—he was muddy, and all the blood he did bleed looked like an awful lot. Whipping him down with a damp paper towel, she saw he barely bled, and the wound was not deep at all.

“You owe me so much,” she whisper-cried, pouring a spot of bitter alcohol onto the wound. Immediately, it bubbled and sizzled like a miniature boiling pot. Disgusted by the mental comparison, she tugged Rumple’s skin until she could properly see the wound.

Belle could see the silvery butt of a bullet snug under his skin. Trying not to gag, she took her tweezers in hand and pretended it was just another game of Operation. On a live subject. That wasn’t human.

Her tweezers grappled with the bullet, but it wasn’t actually too hard to get a drip on it once she had it. Repeating that she was sorry, begging for forgiveness for causing pain, even though he was out cold, she dabbed at the mess with paper towels. Eventually the position she was in was too awkward to work with. Thinking nothing of it, she saddled his waist, and laid across him with her elbows up to continue her job.

Finally she pulled the bullet out. She dropped it in repulsion, listening to it clatter softly against the floor, rolling around in a circle before stopping under the cabinet.

More peroxide was poured onto the wound and gauze from her emergency aid kit (fetched from her cabinet) was placed over it. Applying pressure, she tore off some surgical tape and tucked the gauze down.

Once it was done she sat back on her heels.

There was blood and filth on her hands, on the floor, on her clothes. Rumple, the poor thing, was splayed out like a dead animal. Shaken, she clumsily climbed off him and pulled her gloves off. She would have to have a bath—along with her bathroom.

Yet until then, nothing would happen until he woke up. _And let that be soon!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> READ ME!
> 
> Belle is not a doctor. She does not have the knowledge to treat wounds. I do not either, but I've read about treating bullet wounds, and I tell you now: If you are ever in a situation like Belle is here, do NOT do what she did. This is a work of fiction, I own nothing besides the plot, and I am not giving a lecture on what to do if your 300 pound scalie croc gets shot in the chest.
> 
> Thank you. That's all.


	9. Bath Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just as the chapter title says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Though this chapter was only seven pages long on my Word doc, it's pretty... heavy. Not much major plot development, but Belle and Rumple do get closer...
> 
> Rated E for a reason.
> 
> And Belle is an innocent smol child and we must protect her D:
> 
> AND ALSO: As I mentioned briefly before, Belle's new flat has both a stand-in shower and a tub. Her tub has a hose- I would post a picture on this chapter but I don't feel like figuring out the code to do that, so I'll post a reference picture on Tumblr once I get home from school [ school building's wifi blocks tumblr :( ]

She was exhausted.

Between constantly checking on Rumple, and pinning over the “what-if”s once he came to, she was in a heart-quivering state between paranoia and anxiety. To say the least, she did not like it; she didn’t like it that the anthropomorphic crocodile decided to crash in her bathroom—well, she had lead him up here, but due to that fact he had been shot at, with both a bullet and a tranquilizer dart, she was near livid. Oh, once he woke up, she would be having words with him!

She sat on her bed and tired to work on her novel, glancing up at him every other moment. Rose, to Belle’s slight horror, had gathered the courage to emerge from the couch to check out this new thing in her domain. Sure enough, the small tortoiseshell crept over to the bathroom on cotton ball sized paws. Head down, ears back, she stalked over to the unconscious being splayed out on the tile floor. The small cat hissed upon sniffing him.

Having nothing else to do besides work (Belle’s anxiety was too high to really work), the library’s caretaker took up a book instead. 

~.~.~.~

Face scrunching up, Rumple let out a low, rumbling groan. She still sat on her bed, cross-legged yet poised to move quickly if necessary, but when he moved she was well aware. Staying silent, the petite woman watched the great man-croc squirm into consciousness. 

“Oh, fuck,” Rumple groaned as he began to lift his limbs up. From her angle she couldn’t tell if his eyes were open, but she observed him start to—it wasn’t quite flailing—wriggle around on his back like a turtle would. “Fuck, I can’t—the hell?” 

With a loud groan, the croc slashed his great clawed hands out to grapple the floor. For such a beast, it took a lot of fuss for him to roll onto his belly. His paler, tender underside out of view, and his glossy, murky green and black scales on display, Rumple looked much more frightening on his belly than his back. 

Reptilian eyes glared upwards, pinning her with an accusatory gaze within a slit second. “Were you trying to kill me?” He hissed in that curious accent of his: a uvular trill. 

“I—Sorry, can you not lay on your back?”

“Messes—my sensory—fuck, give me a moment so the room can stop spinning. What happen?”

“You tell me,” she crossed her arms, sliding off her bed to stand before him. “You were shot, and—“

“Ah,” Rumple suddenly purred. Darkly. “I remember now.”

Mightily sighing, the croc pushed himself up on his arms to sit up—an odd sight—on his knees. His thick, long tail tailed around him, foots long. The bandage she’d hastily dressed him with had some blood on it, but not enough for her to worry about. His eyes were focused more, too. 

And of course he still smelled. Horribly.

When she didn’t answer him, too busy studying the scutes on his tail, he said, “Did you doctor me up, scrumptious? How sweet.”

“It would be more trouble for me to rid your body if you died,” she snarked.

Rumple put a hand over his chest, mocking shock. “Is that _sarcasm_ I detect?”

Rolling her eyes, and remembering he wasn’t as bad as she first thought, Belle tiptoed over the dirty floor of her bathroom to get a washcloth. He hadn’t gotten up from the floor yet. Though his expression was close to what it usually was, she could tell he was not well, yet. And knowing him, at all, she had a feeling he would loaf around her new place before he made himself scarce again. Plus he’d been _shot at_. Surely he wouldn’t get up and leave right away. 

If he was staying any longer, he had to be clean. “You smell, Rumple.”

His nostrils flared. “What a rude remark.”

“I’m serious. If you’re staying another moment you need to haul your stinky arse in the tub. Don’t use the shower, it’s jammed.”

Rumple turned his head to look at her bathroom situation. “A tub and a shower? Ah—yes, this place was a house before it became a library, wasn’t it?”

She scrunched her brows. “It was a factory?”

“Family owned business. Mills and Co.”

“Mills? Like the mayor?”

The croc laughed impishly. “Same blood.”

“W—okay, enough. Get your butt in the bath, I can’t smell this—“ she motioned to him in general—“another moment.”

“But maaaaa,” the croc groaned, flopping back onto the floor in a loud thump. “I don’t wana. It’s my natural musk.”

“I doubt that. Get in before I kick you out.”

“How will you do _that?_ ” He mocked, but his eyes shifted, just for a moment, to the doorway of her bedroom with a look of trepidation. 

Belle, irked from his incorporation, dropped to the floor infront of him and sat on his muzzle.

Instantly, his eyes shot upward and glared at her. Mumbling, unable to open his jaw, he lay rather weak and helpless under her.

“You may be tougher than any human, Rumple,” she said, without any room for jokes, “but right now I have more strength than you.”

“Furk uff,” he mumbled, growling. 

After a moment to proof her point, and until he stopped fidgeting beneath her, she stood up and back away.

Perhaps it was a bad move on her part. While Rumple, like any crocodilian, was more or less vulnerable to his jaws being held clasped closed, he still had his teeth and claws—and without his mouth tied, he could truly hurt her.

Yet she knew he was in trouble. Of some kind or another. If he tried to hurt her with his body, the person or people who shot him could be tipped to his whereabouts. If he tried to attack her with—something, well, he was weak from his earlier ordeal. 

Glaring, the croc pulled himself up off the ground. He wouldn’t meet her gaze, and turned angrily to her bathtub.

He tsked, but with a low sigh he turned around and waddled on all fours to the tub; he climbed into the great ovular tub, smearing the edges with his filth. God, he really was gross right now. “Do I get the spa treatment?” He asked woefully.

Belle pursed her lips. “If you’re nice.”

“Nice is my middle name, _dearie._ ”

 _Dearie._ That odd little… condescending address. She wasn’t sure if it was better than “scrumptious”—that seemed to be his personal nickname for her—but the way he said it sounded like he was cussing her.

Once he was in, she followed him and turned the nobs. Rumple let out a loud grunt of surprise when a harsh wave of cold water hit him like small ice bullets. “Fuck!”

Ignoring that, she pulled off the hose and aimed it on him. 

The water would warm up, but—Belle reached out to turn the warm water on more. 

Cruelty wasn’t in her nature. Yet, Rumple made her so angry sometimes; and anger and Rumple didn’t mix well. She glanced at his face, as he struggled against her merciless near-torture.

Now she felt bad.

Sighing, she aimed the water away from him to wash away the dirty water flowing down the drain. With the water warmer now, and the most of the croc’s filth gone, she plugged the tub and poured in the bubble bath soap she owned, and changed the water to the tap and not the hose.

Rumple was no longer swearing like sailor. With his claws clamping around his body, he opened his eyes to stare with all the wretchedness he seemed to muster. Her heart clenched. She had been kind of a bitch.

“Sorry,” she said, and rolled up her sleeves as she kneeled down beside the tub. “That was kind of mean.”

“Kind of?” He spat, low and suspicious. “Dearie, you near threw me into torpor.”

Ah, yes. Another douse to salt to the wound. He was cold-blooded—he needed heat. Belle blushed with shame. To make up for her bad behavior to her hurt guest, she tore off his bandage and put some more bubble bath in. Soon the tub was filling with foamy rose-scented bubbles, masking his sewer-y stench by a degree. Mutely, she took her washcloth out and squeezed some body wash on it. Lathering it up, she leaned over and began to scrub his head.

“What _are_ you doing?” His voice hitched with curiosity.

“Washing you,” she said, scrubbing away his grime. Like magic, his once mucky scales became shiner and—almost sparkly in her bathroom’s light. It was as if tiny flecks of gold shined from his reptilian skin. 

Rumple didn’t have much qualm to this. In fact, his once storming anger died down to—pleasure. He hummed and moved like butter under her menstruations. “Holly hell that feels good.”

“Mhmm,” she nodded and moved across his head, washing his face and muzzle. His teeth dripped with diamonds, it seemed, as water droplets slid down his scales and gums. That slick tongue of his curled when she got under his chin and neck.

Belle cleaned his top and cleaned his middle, marveling at the pretty shade of his scales came to light. He shined like a newborn snake. He leaned back against the tub as she got to his belly.

It was hard to tell if he was on the verge of starving to death or not. He had thick skin, which felt heavy when she cupped his slight jowl under his head, yet there was something—eerily human as well, under all his armor. When he caught her staring, the corners of his maw curled upward. “See something you like, scrumptious?”

She flushed. Why did he make her so—rallied up? “No,” she insisted, but it felt like a lie. Confused, and unsure of what she wanted from him, she went on to bathing her beast. The water would have to drain, soon. She turned the spouts off, and the room fell into a focused silence with only their breathing, the slashes of water, her scrubbing of him, and the soft whirl of her fan in her bedroom. 

He turned to her, eyes heavy. “If I had known you’d be this lovely I’d’ve jumped in here long ago.”

Rolling her eyes, she replied, “Can you get to your back or head without my help?”

Rumple actually snorted. “I couldn’t get my arse clean without you, either.”

At least he was aware of his long frame and slightly-shorter-than-average limbs.

She went on to bathing him, finding a calm in the peace and quiet between them. It strained her muscles to do all this vigorous scrubbing, but the frequent cleaning of the library had hardened her muscles. This was a good work out, in a way.

Right as she was getting to the parts of him underwater, Rumple suddenly lashed out and grabbed her wrist. Startled from her trance, she looked up to him with her eyes wide.

“Careful, Miss French,” he said, voice lower. 

Belle opened her mouth to question him, yet when she took note of where her hands were she realized it herself. 

Unconsciously, she had moved to his… nether regions. Oh. Concerned, she glanced back at him in askance. 

“I don’t mind,” he reassured her with lulled eyelids. She could see the peaking of his second pair of clear eyelids, reminding her of glass marbles. 

“I—“ She didn’t want to look like a sissy, but—well, she guessed he could get to this part himself, since the croc could bend forward well enough like a dolphin—he wasn’t moving at all to take over. He smirked with that odd, toothy mouth of his.

With more tenderness than she knew he was capable of, Rumple reached out to touch her shoulder. Mute, she watched him tug the collar of her t-shirt. 

There were no words but her mind raced with thoughts that she couldn’t keep up with. Practically blank, Belle let the beast haul her into the tub so she could be in front of him. 

She lowered herself into the water, listening to the fuzzing of the popping bubbles. Rumple chuckled, and took her washcloth. “I won’t do a thing you don’t want,” he said. “But if you’re too squeamish to touch the beast…”

That earned him a halfhearted glare. “I’m not afraid.”

“Then prove it, scrumptious.”

And so she did.

Why this felt like something scandalous—well, she had no clue, and never before had she been this close to another male. This atmosphere was alien to her, and Belle felt her heart swell into her throat and an odd pulsing sensation warmed her feminine places. It was as if she was sick, but from what, she didn’t know. At the same time she felt excited at this… new experience.

Rumple leaned back again as she continued her blind scrubbing. Bubbles hid him from her view, but she felt the way his belly was much more supple (like his neck) than the rest of him. However, he was tense behind the skin, and muscles twitched as she neared his cloaca. She shivers from the cool of her apartment’s air and the warm of the water.

When she touched him where all this seemed to be indirectly referring to, she felt—nothing. A smooth curve from his stomach to between the gape between his legs. It felt no warmer than his core temperature, but—it felt soft, and fit into her palm easily. She felt the curve of his puckered vertical seam, and—

Belle shook her head. What the hell was she doing? Blushing madly, she moving away from his—parts—to clean the rest of him. Scrubbing like a maid with a mission, she got to his legs and tail.

“There,” she said, feeling dizzy and awkward. Did he have no modesty? She’d practically copped a feel! “Done—“

She froze.

To her—not horror, nor furry—shock, she made contact with something that hadn’t been there before, beneath the water.

Rumple, letting out a low purr of glee, watched her with his head tilted down to look at her properly. “I told you,” he cooed, “be careful.”

It was a hard shaft of sorts, and through her washcloth Belle found him as thick as an average man’s wrist, if not rounder and more slender, with a slight curve toward the croc’s body. The shaft thing twitched against her—

“Oh my god!” She exclaimed, and backed away from him with a yelp, water sloshing over the side of the tub and splashing onto the floor. “Are you—!?“

“Hard? Always. It’s just out for a wee peek because of you, Miss French.”

“I didn’t—!” Her face was on fire. Goodness, how did she get into this situation?! Turning away from him, she pulled the plug out of the tub and flung herself out. 

“Oh, come now! It wasn’t like I did it on purpose!” Rumple said, but his voice was laced with laughter. “I didn’t mean anything by it!”

“You’re nasty!” She squealed, and dropped her washcloth into the sink. 

He pouted. “But I’m clean now!” 

“That’s not—gah!” Throwing her hands up, she left the bathroom and shut the door, hearing him warble with good merit. He was downright naughty, and she—well, she had no idea what they had, or were, doing. Belle knew it had to be wrong, since he was so not human. 

Yet she couldn’t shake the fact it felt nice to touch him. Or that her heart always sped up when she saw him. That was fear, though. Today, she felt fear, more for his sake than her own. He’d been shot and hurt; Belle had to help, despite his impish nature. 

But now? It was different, and she didn’t have a clue as to what this new emotion was.

She heard the water start up again, and the hose being turned on. Glad to have him busy, she dashed to her dresser to get changed. Once he was out she would be having those words with him. Even if she saw him important to her novel, lines had to be crossed with hiding fugitives from armed men out for his blood. Yet, for now all she needed was a new pair of clothes—it felt like Rumple’s hands were all over her.

And she wasn’t sure if it was entirely unpleasant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and so we go into wee naive belle's emotional adventure in figuring out she's getting the hots for rumple XD


End file.
